Your fault
by Ha ha I'm so alone
Summary: ParentLock. When John and Sherlock's young daughter goes missing they try desperately hard to find her, leading to grim discoveries and sickening truths. But as the hours turn to days and the days turn to weeks, Sherlock can't help thinking this was all his fault...
1. Chapter 1

**Trigger warnings: pedophilia and sexual violence. Parentlock and Johnlock.**

Eve was an odd little girl.

She sported Sherlock's dark hair and pale skin… and also his love for science; her room was decorated with a periodic table and a poster from the Disney movie 'Frozen.'

Of course she may have fallen symptom to typical 6-year-old syndrome, where she laughed whenever her daddies acted silly and got excited over the prospect of dolls… but there was always that oddness to her, her intelligence but at the same time, her patience. She seemed to take after John in that sense, as a brave, accepting individual.

Sherlock heard the two clatter in from behind him. He was sitting at the computer, eyes fixed on the screen. 'Hello dad,' Eve said bouncing into the room.

'Eve…' Sherlock said slowly, still not looking away. 'Good day at school?'

'They're still giving me foundation level stuff.'

'Oh.'

'Dad?'

'Yes?'

'What's the difference between an alkane and an alkene?'

Sherlock exhaled.

'An alkane is a single-bonded hydrocarbon, an alkene is a double bonded,' he frowned at the screen.

'Oh, thank you.' Eve paused for a second, processing the information.

'Hey, get off the table, you!' John said jokily.

'Sorry,' Eve muttered, hopping off the table. She sauntered over to the kitchen just as John slowly approached behind Sherlock. He lowered his voice.

'Anything new?' John asked.

'No.'

'Shit.'

He paused, hearing Eve totter back towards them. 'So missus,' John said. 'Did you think any more about having someone over for tea?' Eve looked up, unloading a loaf of bread and some butter from her arms. She laid them out over the cluttered table.

'No,' she muttered. 'I've been too busy thinking about polymers.'

'Oh come on I'm serious! Have you not made any friends yet?'

She shook her head. Noticing his worried expression, she smiled kindly. 'You needn't fret you know Daddy,' she said, letting her schoolbag drop to the floor. 'Miss. Lancey is letting me stay in at break time to do other things.'

'But you should be outside playing! You like playing, don't you?'

'Yes, but by myself, with my dolls. Other people can't join in. They muck it all up.'

'You need to be a bit more open, sweetie… and what do you mean, muck it up?' She stopped, giving him a meaningful glance.

'They don't understand that Barbie has life goals beyond getting married and having her nails done; I was right in the middle of recreating the plight of the suffragettes when Charlotte butted in and asked if Barbie wanted to help her bake a pie.'

John repressed a laugh that was creeping onto the corners of his mouth. He dropped his head. 'And what did you say to Charlotte?'

'I told her she was perpetuating stereotypes… but she didn't know what that meant so we carried on playing for a bit and then she wanted to play dolls wars.'

'What's that?'

'A swordfight but with dolls. Doing stupid things is fun sometimes.' She put her hand into the plastic bag, bringing out a slice of bread and nibbling on the edges.

'Well does Charlotte want to come over to tea?'

'How would I know?'

'You could try asking her.'

'But what if she said no? it would be embarrassing…' Eve's little face turned red at the very thought of rejection.

'You should take that chance… you can't expect things to change unless you actually do something.'

She nodded slowly, biting into the bread. 'Yeah,' she mumbled. 'Yeah, I suppose.'

* * *

'There were once two men, or so it was said; one ruled by his heart, and one ruled by his head. One was a blogger, the other a detective, but to love each other was their one true objective. They loved each other lots and lots, and were never too far apart. And the man, it said who was ruled by his head, was suddenly ruled by his heart.

But though they were happy, and happy they were, with living, hugging and kissing… they found themselves wondering, pondering, thinking, thinking that something was missing. The detective thought all day and night, wondering what it could be, then he clicked his fingers and said to his blogger that he wanted a family.

So off they went, they searched and searched for the perfect little girl, until they found her, with big blue eyes and beautiful dark curls. So they took her home, they named her Eve and they laid her in her cot, it was then they knew, this Evie girl they loved an awful lot.'

It was a little poem John had written when looking after a baby Eve one day, and bored out of his mind. It was now a nightly ritual that Eve would hear the story of the blogger and the detective before bed. Gently closing the book, John leaned over and kissed Eve on the forehead. 'Goodnight love,' he said gently, standing.

'Daddy,' Eve called before he had a chance to leave. John turned. Her face was illuminated by her pink Disney Princess lampshade, and it bore a quizzical expression.

'Yes?'

'Dad said that's not how it worked,' she wriggled upwards, propping herself on her elbows. 'He said that they found a um… a… _sur_rogate mother to have me…'

'That's enough.'

'What?'

'I think you're too young to be having this conversation.'

'No I'm not!' She shook her head from side to side, her front tooth biting at her lower lip. Her face was in a sort of smile. 'I'm old now! I'm getting too old for you to carry me.'

'You're not getting old, my arms are.'

'No Daddy I'm getting heavy. A girl at school told me. I sat on her. We were fighting.' John exhaled, his face looking like he might sigh or start laughing. He instead shook his head.

'Goodnight,' he said firmly, before switching the light off. Turning on his heel he left the room, closed the door behind him.

The last thing he saw was Evie's long dark curls rippled on the pillow beside her head.

'I'm gonna need you to pick up Evie tomorrow okay?' he approached Sherlock, who was squinting meticulously at a test tube. He grunted once in response, pale blue eyes trained on the tube. 'Sherlock?'

'Yes… I said yes.'

'Good, thank you… it's only for the week.'

'Whaty're you doing that's so important anyway?'

'I'm taking French classes.'

'French classes,' Sherlock said flatly. He tore his gaze from the test tube to glance witheringly at John.

'Why not? You're always speaking in bloody fluent languages, why can't I learn for once?' He squeezed past Sherlock. Shifting a coffee cup and a pile of magazines away from his laptop, he lowered himself into his chair.

'I could have taught you,' the detective muttered.

John gave a short, one-syllable laugh. 'Yeah, like you'd have the patience to teach me anything.'

'I taught Eve about ion bonding!'

'Yeah, and you almost scared the life out of her!' Despite his state, Sherlock could hear humor rise in his partner's voice. It made a smile creep to his mouth.

'So… I'm passionate about my ions,' he muttered. John laughed again, only more genuinely. Sherlock turned to face him, his smile spreading wider; why did his face have to look so irresistible when it smiled? 'Was she alright?' he asked.

'Going to bed? Yeah. Apart from the fact that she was asking about surrogate mothers,' he raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

'Well John, you may be in the place to lie to your daughter, but I'm not.'

'Sherlock, she's six years old; let her find out in her own time!'

There was a long pause and then a sigh. 'I suppose so.'

'Sherlock?'

'Yeah?'

'Do you think Eve is… happy? At school?' There was another sigh.

'You'd know more than me. And she's very bright… perhaps we should move her up to a higher class?'

'If we were going to do that we may as well move her up into high-school.' Sherlock swallowed.

_No way is my baby going to high school_ he thought. _Those kids are vicious_. The very mention of it made his blood run cold. And poor little Evie would have no Mycroft looking out for her.

He was so enwrapped in thought that he didn't hear John approach behind him. There was a tiny flinch before he relaxed, allowing John to snake his arms around his middle and hug him from behind. He kissed Sherlock's high cheeks before resting his chin on his shoulder and nuzzling against Sherlock's neck. Sherlock turned, touching the back of John's soft pale hair, before pecking him on the lips.

'Eve's asleep,' he whispered, rocking Sherlock slowly by the shoulders.

'Give me a minute,' Sherlock muttered in response, picking up the bottled bromine water. John released him.

'I'll be in the bedroom,' he said, padding away. The detective smirked, placing the yellowed substance of his test-tube in its rack.

He turned back to his Bromine water before stopping, cocking his head towards Evie's door. There he sighed, laid the test-tube down and paced towards her room.

He gently pushed the door open on her sleeping face. Smiling, he crept towards her, before leaning over and stroking her wild hair. He kissed her exposed canvas of forehead. 'Goodnight Eve,' he whispered. 'I know it's unethical that I'm talking to you whilst you're unconscious… but I want you to know that I love you lots and lots, and so does Daddy. Perhaps a little part of this will leak through your brain's consciousness and create a subliminal message in your mind… that'd be nice.' With that he stood, turned, looked at her one last time and left the room.

**Six-year-olds don't tend to talk like this, yeah, but bear in mind this is Sherlock's kid. Reviews are very much appreciated!**


	2. Chapter 2

2

John awoke to an unpleasant smell and Eve standing over him.

As he opened his eyes he saw that she'd stretched her pyjama top over her nose and was holding something out in front of her. She blinked. 'Good morning.'

'What is…' John wriggled up onto his elbows, squinting in the light. She blinked again.

'Dad forgot to put the lid on the bromine water,' she said, her voice muffled. 'Now the kitchen's gone smelly.'

Movement stirred beside John.

'Evie, put that bromine down!' Sherlock yelled, springing out of bed. He skirted the bed before snatching it from her fingers.

'Why, what's the matter?' John said, confused.

'It's a harmful irritant, go and wash your hands!' he said breathlessly, steering Eve out of the room. She shifted her chin , freeing the neckline of her pyjama top.

'Sherlock!'

'I know I know I'm sorry!' he gabbled pinching the very cap of the bromine and bolting from the room.

John sighed heavily.

On the one hand, Sherlock was very careful when it came to the safety of Eve; when they'd first brought her home he'd padded the corners of every table and struggled with fitting baby gates at the top of the stairs. Any toy she played with was immediately sterilized when she tried chewing it and it had become a second nature to put the seatbelt on her, even though she was more than capable of doing it herself.

On the other, John was surprised she'd survived this long; there had been at least three incidents when Sherlock had accidently left her alone whilst solving a case, only to panic massively between deductions, yelling out 'Shit, I forgot Evie!' rather than getting them any closer to solving the case.

But Eve had a healthy weld between extreme intellect and common sense, something her father did not possess. She was rather aware that her home was a veritable war-zone, and had instinctively been able to identify a threat when she saw one, and all whilst acting cheerful.

When John had finally got himself up and dressed he walked into the hallway to see Sherlock holding Eve's head whilst gently dribbling water into her eyes. 'Jesus Christ, how bad is it?'

'Not too bad. Her eyes were stinging but she didn't touch any of it. It's probably made her cough a little.' He finished, letting go of her head as she blinked heavily. 'You alright?'

She nodded, reaching a hand up to rub her eyes.

'Put your pyjamas straight in the wash, ok?'

'Yeah… and you were a very silly man for leaving out bromine water.'

Sherlock sighed. 'It's almost eight o clock and you're not dressed.'

'I'll speed dress!' she said suddenly, darting into her bedroom and slamming the door behind her. Sherlock shook his hands free of the water as John raised an eyebrow.

'She's kind of right you know, you _were_ a silly man.'

'I'll remember for next time. My mind was a little… occupied.' His face twisted into a tempting grin, one that drove John to move closer. He leaned up to kiss Sherlock's mouth before whispering sensually: 'You smell of bromine water.' He spluttered into a little laugh.

'You smell of sweat and gay sex.'

'You really know how to switch on romance don't you?'

'Oh, like a tap,' he whispered one last time, before giving John another hasty kiss.

'Ready!' a little voice piped up from behind them. John turned to see Eve standing with her rucksack, eyes bleary and hair a frizzy mess.

'You haven't done your hair… Sherlock?'

'Hmm?'

'The bobbles are in the kitchen.' John pushed past him to get to the bathroom. He began to brush his teeth.

Once ready, he walked into the kitchen to see Sherlock's face twisted in concentration, tying bands in Eve's hair. There was an urge to burst out laughing when she turned to face him; there was one great fat plait on one side of her head, the other holding a skinny little sliver of a brown braid. Sherlock stood back, rubbing his hands on his back and looking at John as if to say: "I tried, I really did but what witchcraft is this?"

'Come here, sweetheart,' John said, holding out his hand for Eve to take. She hopped off her chair and snatched up her rucksack. 'We'll fix that on the way.' He shook his head at Sherlock who shrugged helplessly.

'Bye Dad!'

'Goodbye Evie.'

'Please do be careful with the bromine because sometimes it can get into your lungs and I love you very much.' Sherlock chuckled at her dear concern.

'I'll be careful.'

* * *

'You're sure it's a serial kidnapper?'

_'__Yes,'_ Sherlock insisted. 'We need more people working on this case; the sooner we actually realize these events are linked the closer we'll be to actually _achieving_ something.'

Lestrade scratched the back of his neck, blowing out heavily through his lips. John and Sherlock were standing next to him, leaning over his cluttered desk.

In the past three months, over fifty young girls had disappeared.

'You sure none of them have ran away?' Sherlock sighed.

'_Run_ away… And no, running away is for teenage girls who usually resurface in a couple of days; the age of these children ranges from three to seven. There's probably a group of kidnappers working on this.' As he was talking he began touching the edges of the crumpled map that was laid out on the table. Lestrade had highlighted separate streets where the children were last seen. 'There's a nice smattering of location choices… Any pattern in the race of the children?'

'No.'

'Any pattern in the build?'

'None.'

'Okay. Well as senior officer I suggest you gather a team of about twenty and start forking out jobs to them.'

Lestrade sighed again. 'Fine then. I take it you want to be in on the action as well? Or are you just going to drift in and out of the office at inconvenient times?'

Sherlock frowned. 'Don't pretend you don't need my help; it's been three months and you haven't found anything!'

'Sherlock,' John said gently touching his arm. The detective looked, confused at his face.

One thing that he would always be confused by is what John wanted him to do when he gave him that long stare. It was like trying to figure out what his baby daughter was crying for.

'What?'

'Indoor voice please.'

'Wow; fatherhood has really left a mark on you, hasn't it?'

Lestrade cleared his throat. 'You wanted me to "fork out jobs?"'

'Yes, try and interview as many parents as you can.'

'I've already done that.'

'Then look over the notes and try and see if there are any patterns. Can I have a list of names and addresses?'

Another sigh, this time accompanied with the sound of a drawer opening as Lestrade lifted out a wad of paper scraps. He handed them to Sherlock, who attempted to hand them back.

'What?'

'Try and get someone to alphabetize them, at least.' They were pushed firmly into Sherlock's palm.

'That'll be your job then, Mr. Smart Arse.'

'What? Well… no, no, I need to do my_own_ investigating!'

'You can be a part of this case on one condition: You get this organized as I round up a team. And don't go swanning off anywhere either.'

Sherlock scowled. 'Fine,' he said, roughly shoving the wad of paper into his pockets.

From his side, John inhaled loudly. Sherlock knew by now that this was his signal to look over at him. 'Yes?'

'I'd better be leaving now.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, it's two,' he muttered, turning the face of his watch for Sherlock to see.

'What time will you be home?'

'I dunno around… sixish? I think we'll have a takeaway tonight.' He was already shrugging on his coat. Sherlock had retrieved the papers from his pocket and was now shifting through them. John paused, trying to catch his attention. 'Sherlock?'

'Mmm?'

'You won't forget, will you?'

A pause. John sighed. '_Sher_lock?'

'No? I said no.'

'Sure you did,' John muttered, but once again he was smiling. He briefly walked up to Sherlock and pecked him on the cheek, only to be greeted with a vacant turn of the head.

As the door shut behind him, Sherlock turned his head to smile; in spite of what he'd thought, wedlock really did suit him.

**Just a cheeky Conan Doyle reference there for my brothas *fist bumps you* ha ha, I'm so alone…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Just a heads up, strong themes of child sexualization here. If it's a topic that may make you incredibly upset, please miss this one out because I love you all and would hate to upset you.**

**Reviews would be lovely**

* * *

Eve sighed heavily.

The air outside was bitterly cold, the sky blood red, the dark outlines of tall branches combing the clouds. She checked her watch. 3:30

Dad wasn't here yet.

She was leaning against the side of the year six classroom, opposite the monkey bars and out of sight from her teacher. If there was one thing she'd learned at all that year it was that teachers flip out if parents are late.

Charlotte and all the other children had long since gone, lost in a scramble of red-cheeked mothers and excessive knitwear. When leaving, Charlotte had yelled 'Catch you later alligator!' before waving and shaking her head to let the pink pom-pom she was wearing as a wig fall to the floor.

Charlotte really was beginning to grow on Eve. This morning, she'd given her the gift of a golf ball that she'd found lying along the plain. At breaktime Eve had told her the story of how once, at Daddy's work, an old lady called Doris had managed to escape and had to be gently retrieved by John who was half way through his fish and chips. Charlotte had insisted on re-enacting the whole experience, wearing her bright pink pom-pom wig and pretending to shuffle like an old lady as Eve searched high and low for her. It ended in a dramatic re-uniting and a gratuitous sub-plot about Doris needing a new hip, entailing Charlotte to lie out flat on a bench as Eve pretended to operate on her.

3:45

Eve sighed once again, making her breath cloud in the raw air. She rubbed her cold hands together. Suddenly the idea of her ugly school jumper seemed very appealing.

'Hello?' a voice called. Mrs. Frank, her teacher. 'Is anyone still out here?' There was a pause, before the sharp sound of a door slamming shut. Eve flinched, wishing she'd gone indoors to wait.

She lingered for one or two more minutes before it began to rain. 'Wonderful,' Eve muttered, clenching her fists. She knew where Sherlock was now; he'd be halfway through some work and will have probably forgotten all about her. It may be night-time before he'd remember to pick her up.

Torrents of freezing rain were coming down thick and fast, turning the flowerpots to muddy streams and drowning Charlotte's discarded pom-pom into the tarmac. Running, Eve climbed the three wooden steps to the year six classroom and tried shoving the metal bar to open it. Locked. Splashing back down, she attempted four more doors that led into different classrooms before realizing that teachers went home early in the last week of term. They only needed to provide children with a place to stay until quarter-to.

Eve realized a low growl, her arms white with cold, clothes plastered to her body. The sky was indigo now. Dad wasn't coming. What was she going to do? She shuffled along the empty playground to the bike stack, kneeling down to unlock hers from the chain. White hands on rusted metal.

She looked up at the school gate. She could make her own way home, couldn't she? She was smart enough to know not to get into any cars, and she knew the quickest shortcut; it would only take five minutes.

She mounted her bike, pedaling into the crammed streets of London. Turning into a side street she passed the warm glow of a Chinese restaurant window, watching as people packed away their market-stalls down the back of the Queen's Theatre. The rain was still thick, blackening the grim brick walls and casting puddles on the shiny black cobblestones. Frost clung to the wheels of bins, red lights, coal dust and KFC filling her nose. Baker Street wasn't far. Two more minutes of riding and it took her onto the main road.

* * *

She was poised on her bike, one knee higher than the other so that a slant of white pants was recognizable beneath the taunt material of her lopsided skirt. She was coatless, sporting on her top half merely a white shirt that was stuck to her body with rainwater. It was transparent. Resting on her back was a fishtail plait which caused a stream of water to trickle indirectly to her grey skirt.

But oh, those wet clothes. That pure, white flesh. The chink of underwear that shone between her legs. Even a strand or two of loose hair dripped with rain, landing on her childish chest like the nozzle of a broken tap. And he couldn't help himself grinning, couldn't stop the hot tide of heated blood to shiver beneath his flesh. Her childish innocence he found so endearing… and those clothes… He'd be lying if he said he didn't have a thing for school uniforms. Especially the way Eve wore it, with calf-length black cotton socks and chunky patent leather shoes. The more he pictured her, the shorter the skirt became in his mind, creeping up her thigh like groping fingers, tighter, tighter on her pale virgin skin, until the pleated fabric hardly covered her wet panties.

Man.

He needed to sort his mind out.

She turned her head from side to side, ready for the stream of cars to pass and for the road to be clear. Once the traffic lights switched she flicked the handle of her bike and forced the metal frame forwards, lifting her bottom from the seat so she could excel forwards. Each time her knee jerked upwards he craned his neck, trying to catch a flash of her underwear. There he raised his phone to eye-level, pretending to check a text, before photographing the child.

Lifting the phone down, he kept his eyes and face neutral as he flicked through the pictures. His eyes shot upwards, catching one last glimpse of the kid before she cycled away down the street.

**Sorry if that was a little jarring *shudders* **

**Reviews would be much appreciated. **


	4. Chapter 4

Rain pelted the windows of 221b.

Sherlock sighed, lifting his fingers to his head. He'd managed to single out two interviews that seemed similar, and consult his homeless network on what they were looking for.

Apart from that, nothing.

The door clattered open, revealing a rain-soaked John. He was holding two bags of Chinese takeaway. 'Hey,' he mumbled, shuffling past Sherlock to place the bags on the table. He took off his coat and gloves, drew up a chair and sat beside him.

'Anything new?'

'No.' Sherlock was still looking at his notes. He clicked a pen, making it bounce once before scribbling something down.

'Right.'

A long, painful pause.

'Sooo…' John rubbed his hands together. 'How was Eve?'

Sherlock stopped. He raised his head.

'What?' his voice was low, dangerous. John's face fell.

Sherlock stood slowly. It felt as if the world was crashing in on itself as the first wave of panic hit him.

'Sherlock… what is it?'

Nausea, panic, dread and ice-cold fear seemed to blast him from the side.

'Sherlock?' John gasped. 'You haven't…' his voice rose. 'You… _did you forget Eve?!' _

Sherlock seemed oblivious to John's shouting. 'I…' He opened and closed his mouth but no words came out.

'Oh!' John gripped his head with his hands, anger and fear swelling inside him. 'Sherlock…. SHERLOCK!' he grabbed his husband's hand. 'DID YOU FORGET EVE?!'

Keep calm now.

Calm, Sherlock, that's the best thing you can do.

Think.

_Think._

'I…' His heart began racing. 'She…She might be here,' he muttered. Refusing to acknowledge what he already knew, he went into the well-practiced medical emergency mode. He scoured the flat to exclude all other possibilities, ticking boxes he knew deep down were already ticked. Fear bloted through him. Icy fear. Dear God, no! _Please no!_

He searched bedrooms, cupboards, wardrobes, under desks, under tables, in and out of the kitchen. 'EVE!' He called, before hurtling through the flat again, checking it in a mere fifteen seconds.

After what seemed like hours of searching, he was forced into the kitchen, forced to face the chilling truth. Eve wasn't here.

The grey corridor seemed to contort as he panted, panic haring through him, red-hot panic.

Where was she?

Why wasn't she here?

Did she get into a car?

Did Charlotte's Mum take her home?

Did one of the teachers take her home?

Did she try and make her own way home?

Or, the most terrifying conclusion,

Does Eve make fifty-one?

'No,' he whispered, shaking his head. No. She can't. Not Eve. Not our little girl. Not Eve.

By this time John was in hysterics. 'WHERE IS SHE?!' He screamed.

'John, please, we have to stay calm—'

'STAY CALM?! THERE'S A SERIAL KIDNAPPER ON THE LOOSE! OUR DAUGHTER'S MISSING! YOU WANT ME TO STAY CALM!'

John's face was twisted in anger. He breathed deeply, in through the nose, out through the mouth. 'What…' his voice sounded spent, tired, grey. 'What do we do now?'

Sherlock paused, biting his lip.

'The school,' he muttered. 'She might still be at the school…'

He grabbed John's arm, pushing him through the door. Mrs. Hudson materialized in the hallway. 'What's going on?' she asked.

'Mrs. Hudson, have you seen Eve?'

'Eve? No love, I don't think I have…'

'Shit, Sherlock!'

'Calm down, John!'

'I'm not calming down!' Again, Sherlock caught him by the wrist, tugging him out into the rainy pavement. 'Oh, Jesus Christ Sherlock!' John cried, lifting two hands up to clad his face. 'She wasn't even wearing her jumper, she wasn't even wearing her jumper!'

Sherlock hailed a small black cab. As they climbed into the back he took a gentle hold of John's shoulders. 'John,' he said quietly. His heart was beating so loudly that it seemed to drown out his own voice. 'You_need_ to stay calm… she might be fine for all we know,'

'And if she isn't?!'

He paused. Swallowed. 'Then keeping calm is the best thing we can do.' Sherlock sat back in his seat, telling the cabbie the address of the school.

As he glanced out of the window at the dark, dark night, he caught his own reflection numerous times; he was biting his nails, his expression twisted in fear. He rubbed his knee.

She had to be at school.

She _had_ to.

Beside him, John was jogging his legs restlessly. 'She won't have gotten into a car,' he said to himself. 'She won't… she's smart… she won't have gotten into a car.'

The streets were glistening with silvery rain. Dark figures skulked the roads, heads down; a little girl would be so out of place here.

_Wherever she is, she's safe._

She had to be.

She _had _to be.

The night was windy and cold; All Sherlock could think about was how chilly she must be in her school uniform, how he wished he would have given her some thick tights to wear, a coat, at least.

The cab pulled up.

John was first out, haring along the empty playground. 'EVE!' he shrieked. 'EVE!'

Sherlock was soon to follow. The asphalt was an industrial, treacle-black, one long ribbon of moonlight streaked along it. His shadow stretched out in front of him, long limbs, head the size of a tennis ball.

John came at a stop near the year six portakabins. He was panting, hands on his knees, facing the primary-coloured monkey bars that were now rusted and frosty. 'The bike…' he panted. Sherlock ran to the bike stack. From a distance it was notably empty, but he still looked behind it, as if searching for a sign of Eve.

He stopped.

The red-hot blood in his veins ran ice-cold. He was suddenly aware of the bitter wind that snapped at his coat lapels.

His little girl was gone.

His heart lurched for a second as the full horror of the situation slammed into him. John approached next to him. He was shaking.

'What now Sherlock?' he asked, his voice weak. Sherlock turned slowly, in contrast to the fear that was shearing through his body.

'… let's call Lestrade.' He faced John, who's expression was falling into despair. Sherlock saw his eyes glisten with tears.

'Ok,' he said, nodding. 'She might still be ok, mightn't she?'

'Yeah.'

'She might have gone home with Charlotte's Mum, right?'

'Right.' He was trying desperately hard to off-set the negative voice that was taunting his head "She's gone, she's gone!"

Oh God… what could be done now? What _should_ be done now? Sherlock of all people should know this.

John shakily took his phone from his pocket, punched in Lestrade's number. As the phone rang he shifted from foot to foot. The panic was still fresh within them; Sherlock just wanted to move. He wanted to help. Every second Eve was not with them made his stomach lurch.

* * *

She was gone.

She was number fifty-one.

The fact was soon realized.

The minute John had entered the office he'd broken down, in a state too harrowing for Sherlock to bear. He was trying to evade panic, but nothing could stop the silver seams of tears to thread his face. The more he talked, the more he felt his throat fill with grief. Getting heavier and heavier, until he could hardly breathe.

The sobbing took him entirely by surprise.

He was mid-sentence when he suddenly let out a loud cross between a laugh and a cry. It didn't take long until he too was distraught. He clutched a hold of John and the two sank to their knees together.

It felt as if the ground could have swallowed them up.

The police had sent teams to search the streets near the school. Outside in the dark, their voices too loud, too real.

'Eve?' the voice of strangers. The voices that had sought out dead bodies, rape victims. The voices that did this everyday. 'Eve? Evie? Evelyn? Eve Holmes? Eve Watson?'

His own daughter's name was so oddly jarring to Sherlock. He and John searched the streets themselves, panic prowling their insides like hunger and fatigue. 'Eve, sweetheart, it's Dad!' he called, his breath fogging in the cold, cold night.

_Let her be warm. Please, please let her be warm._

Down the back of Queen's Theatre, near the Chinese restaurant, Sherlock made his first sickening discovery.

In a ginnel piled with binbags, Eve's bike lay lodged, bell broken. He hauled it from the rubbish and onto the road, gripping the metal frame for support. It was so tiny. Sherlock merely stared for a couple of seconds, blinking. The sight of it made him want to scream. She was taken by force, taken from her little pink bike with no chance of getting home.

Ten hours later.

Ten _hours. _

John lay next to Sherlock in bed. Neither could dream of sleeping. Right then, at that moment, Sherlock felt Eve's fear.

He shook violently.

'She's been taken, hasn't she?' John whispered.

Sherlock frowned. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear thinking about it.

'Well you know what they said,' Sherlock spat. 'When you're in London you're never too far away from a _rat!' _

John rolled away from him. On the bedside table were an assortment of pictures, many of baby Eve. He felt his eyes well. 'I've failed her!' he whispered, tears falling from his face. 'I've let her down Sherlock, I've failed her!'

'No, no you've not,' Sherlock said, trying to distract his own gnawing distress. He rolled over to face John, who buried his face in Sherlock's torso. As his husband sobbed gently, Sherlock tried to stoke his flaxen hair…

No, no _you_ haven't failed her John.

But _I_ have.

**I feel a bit meh about this chapter :/**

**Please review and tell me what you thought in the comments (I can't tell you how happy it makes me!)**


	5. Chapter 5

**The usual triggers, pedophilia, injury detail... Sherlock may seem a little OOC here but it'll all make sense. **

_Baby Eve had glittering eyes and a small, magical face. As she sat in her high-chair she clapped her pearly hands, grinning in such a way that one could not evade an affectionate chuckle. Sherlock picked her up. She was fat and sticky and drooling milk. She smelt good. As he lifted her he couldn't help but graze his jaw along her warm head, tickling the spiraling reams of hair that sat like curly black silk. He kissed her irresistible skin as she laughed and clapped more, kicking her strong, bendy legs. She lifted her delicate little hands and plucked at his face. 'A-bub bub bub bub,' she babbled. Sherlock released a mock growl and tilted her body way up into the air so that her legs were angled to the ceiling. She squealed in delight. Sherlock peppered her face with kisses. _

_What a perfect little human._

Sherlock opened his eyes. He hadn't slept; he'd blacked out.

John was curled away from him, asleep. As he stood he checked his phone and attempted a smile, before standing and getting dressed at the foot of the bed. John stirred, before heaving the covers from his body.

He frowned at the sight of Sherlock. 'What're you doing?' he asked. His voice was pained, weak and waterlogged.

'Getting dressed.'

'Why are you wearing a suit?'

'I always wear a suit… and I'm going on a date.'

'_What?!_' John threw himself out of bed. His eyes were red. Sherlock calmly brought his phone up to eye-level… a description of a man seen near the abduction sites of one of the girls. The homeless network had only managed to track one photograph of him in central London.

'I'm going out to Liverpool to watch Swan Lake.'

'What the _fuck_ are you talking about!?'

'It's on at the Empire; I'm meeting Colin there.'

'Who's… you know what, fuck that! We're looking for Eve today and you know we are!' His face bore such blind anger and confusion. He was still bleary from lack of sleep.

Sherlock swallowed; I f he told John the truth now it might rupture his whole plan. 'I'm sorry but I must dash, I've got a train to catch.' He took his scarf from the back of the chair and looped it around his neck, before shrugging on his coat.

'No… no, no, no, I'm not putting up with your mysterious bullshit right now Sherlock, not right now!'

'I'll be back in the afternoon.'

'No Sherlock… _Sherlock!'_

The door slammed behind him.

* * *

Sherlock leaned his head against the train window, closing his eyes. There was a long vein of water stuck to it that pulsed with rain. A cheese and mayo sandwich lay split on the plastic table in front of him, in such a way that it resembled maggots festering in a wound.

His eyes opened, only to check his phone again. Three missed calls from John. As well as a message from Colin: 'Hey, thanx 4 coming at such short notice, can't wait to see you therexxx'

The picture sent by the homeless network was of a man recognized as Michael Pitcher. A tall, thin man, haggard, with a scrappy unkempt beard. He had short dark hair and deeply hooded eyes, one that fit the description perfectly.

After some searching, Sherlock could only find one other picture of Michael, one of him standing outside a house, arms wrapped around a man identified as his partner, Colin Downham.

Colin; Sherlock liked to think as a male version of Molly. Meek, shy and ditzy. In many ways he was like a deer; too much fuss and he'd be scared off. That's what prevented Sherlock from getting anyone else involved.

His phone rang. Mycroft.

'Why are you calling you never call me?'

Silence.

'What do you want?'

'Sherlock… it isn't _your _ Eve is it?'

He froze. 'What? What are you talking about?'

'Sherlock, you _know_ what I'm talking about; Serial kidnappings. It's on the news. She's on the news.' Sherlock sighed, sitting back.

He wondered when the media would get involved. 'Well, is it true?'

'Obviously.'

More silence. 'I… I'm sorry then.'

The line went dead.

Media… How could he not see that coming? John was going to kill him when he got home.

* * *

It was an open room, steel and lilac velveteen chairs clumped tastefully around round varnish tables. A large bowl of purple and cream potpourri sat in the middle of it, lavender and jasmine. Mirrors were dotted on the walls, ornate silver frames, varnished surface bearing the refection of a young, well-shaven pianist in a dinner-jacket.

Half of the room was made up of a large glass window, catching the image of the setting sun on each of Liverpool's shimmering buildings. The wooden floors were steel grey, the sky a mellow orange. Cream poufs, opaque purple vases on black wooden tables. Around them, an assortment of humans, a woman with nice black clothes, nice blonde hair but an old, ugly face. She had an assortment of chunky silver rings and bracelets on her hands, black nail varnish, high heels and rectangular glasses artfully postured, swilling a glass of white wine. Beside her, a man sitting upright on a cream chair, wine glass between his fingers. He was fully suited, nicely combed hair, middle aged.

Opposite them, a man was perched on the edge of one of the sofas, sipping nervously from a glass of wine.

Colin.

Sherlock walked over to the bar, the pungent smell of alcohol and lime filling his nostrils. A girl with bright white skin and chin-length black curls smiled at him; she looked strangely like Eve. 'Name?'

'Wilson.' She came back a couple of seconds later with his drink. 'Thank you.'

Colin was wearing a V-necked purple sweater and trousers marked with pink glitter-glue. A daughter, most probably, about eighteen moths judging by the height of the mark. His face lit up when he saw Sherlock.

'Mr. Wilson! I thought you weren't coming… oh sorry that sounded a bit rude I just… not that I'd assume you wouldn't come I just…' he broke off the sentence, instead drinking some more wine.

Colin looked like a Pre Raphaelite woman; shapely nose, pointed chin, a soft jaw, striking Romanic side-profile and defined lips. His skin was porcelain and his eyes were a wide, pale blue. His eyelashes were long and girly, his hair mainly consisting of a chocolate-brown fringe the swiped along his forehead. The rest of his hair was short and layered.

He had a long red scar over one of his eyes, put there by a belt. It was a couple of years old, about five.

He was holding guilt. Low self-esteem. Suffered some trauma. He'd been single for a long time.

'Please,' Sherlock said. 'Call me Paul.' He held out a hand. Colin shook it; soft, petal skin. Not a manual laborer. Probably works from home.

'Paul,' he grinned. 'Anyway, thank you so much for coming.'

'My pleasure,' Sherlock leaned back, one arm slung around the back of the sofa. The more he tried to alienate his body language away from his usual mannerisms, the easier this acting malarkey became.

'So… do you come to the ballet often?'

'Me? Nah, I'm more of a musicals person myself.' Sherlock lied.

'Oh my gosh me too!' Colin shifted his knees so he was angled more towards Sherlock. 'So, what's your favorite?'

He had a second of panic before remembering the queen's theatre. 'Um… Les Miserables.'

'Mmm,' Colin nodded, mouth in his wine. He lowered it and swallowed. 'I'm a Phantom boy myself, although I do really like Into the Woods… and Wicked and Miss Saigon and Sweeney Todd and Little Shop of Horrors and West Side Story and… Oh sorry, I'm going on…'

'No, please, continue.' Violinist. Held the pen like a bow. Nails cut back on his left hand and tiny ridges on his fingers where the strings had cut into his flesh. Stay at home Dad. Baby-powder on his cuff… as he paid the bill Sherlock saw into his wallet. A picture of himself kissing the cheek of a baby girl with beautiful brown skin and black braids in her hair.

Adopted father.

'Oh, looks like that's our call,' He chuckled. 'Come on, I got us good seats.

The night was lost in a sea of twirling skirts, pointed toes and music that seemed to merge into one bland chunk of noise. Sherlock couldn't think; what if there were cameras outside of 221b, waiting? What would John do? What if Colin knows nothing helpful? How could he live with himself knowing that he'd wasted all the time he could have spent on searching for Eve?

The interval was his chance. He'd been sub-consciously scowling at Colin throughout the entire evening. His charade was wearing thin.

As Colin chattered in the Lobby, Sherlock suddenly grabbed him by the arm, hauling him out of the room and into a secluded stairwell. Colin shrieked, almost toppling over and spilling his glass of wine.

Deer in headlights.

'P-Paul? What're you doing?' his wintery eyes widened. Sherlock let go of his arm and dropped his voice.

'Listen,' he muttered. He pulled out a picture of Michael Pitcher from his pocket. At the sight of it, Colin's eyes became wider still.

'No,' he squeaked. 'No, no, no!' with each 'No' his voice rose, echoing down the empty stairwell. He tried pushing past Sherlock, only to be caught by the arm and swung back around again. He gave a light scream. 'Don't touch me!'

'Listen to me, Colin,' Sherlock said calmly, taking a step back. 'I just need to know, do you know this man?'

Colin took a second, breathing heavily. 'You're… you're not Paul are you?' this time he sounded more disappointed than scared.

'No. Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes.'

'Sher… I know that name from somewhere!'

'Yes, I solve crimes. Now, I gather you know this man, Michael Pitcher. You're the only person that has been traced back to his name, therefor the only person that can really help us.'

'Help us?'

'Yes.' Sherlock glanced at his feet. 'Listen, Colin… I know you used to be his partner and this may be quite shocking to you. There have been serial kidnappings in London of young girls and this Michael Pitcher is our prime suspect.'

Colin's eyes immediately filled with tears as he pressed a hand over his mouth in shock.

'We find Michael, we find the girls. Also, I ask you as a father… I know you have a daughter at home.'

His hands tightened on the rim of his wine glass. 'You… How… You kn-know about Bianca?' he squeaked.

'Yes. Now Colin…' Sherlock lowered his head, his curls falling forwards. He cleared his throat. 'I'm a father too you know. And one of the girls that was taken was… My daughter. My _only _daughter. Eve.'

The eyes were wide and brimming again. Sherlock had him now.

'So you understand it's very important that you tell me everything you know about this man, Michael Pitcher.'

Colin sighed sadly, tears in his voice. He was a man of empathy, weak and sensitive. He wasn't a man that would fare well in Lestrade's office being questioned.

'Well…' Colin bowed his head, staring into the abyss of his wine glass.

'Well?'

'Well… I first met him five years ago. My first boyfriend… and he never really struck me as odd…' he flicked his fringe out of his eyes and swallowed. 'Non-committal… promiscuous, brave… always trying new stuff out… that was the only weird thing really, I never thought he'd stick with me for so long.'

'New stuff? What stuff?'

Colin flushed a violent shade of red. He lifted his head slowly. 'I… I'd rather not say,' he stammered taking a sip of wine and tucking a chunk of hair behind his ear.

Sherlock sighed witheringly. 'I won't go telling Mummy… now what stuff?'

'Bedroom-related stuff,' he mumbled.

'I gathered… would you care to specify?'

'Do I have to?'

'Just give me a vauge idea.'

'Ok… well a lot of…fetishes… bondage-type things. At first it was fun but then he just got weird.'

'Got weird?'

'Yes… he gained this almost sadistic sensibility, and this stormy anger. I loved him and I was new, I didn't know much about homosexual relationships. I didn't want to break it off.'

'Sadistic. This had something to do with your sex-life?'

'Unfortunately… he brought home photos for us to look at together.' Colin swallowed, the pain of the memory evident in his eyes. 'It was all self-mutilation, dislocated shoulders, feet broken at odd-angles, all that stuff seemed to turn him on.'

'You didn't smell a rat then?'

'Oh I did! And I wanted to leave him, I really did, but it was tricky… after that everything intensified and got a little frightening. That's when…' He stopped mid-sentence, as if he'd realized something awful. His pale eyes glistened. 'That's when I found his book.' His face crumpled. He lifted the wine glass to his lips and knocked back two huge gulps. Sherlock noticed his hands shake.

He exhaled, shifted his feet and continued. 'I was doing a big spring clean of the house when I noticed this book under his bed; looked like a photo album. I opened it up to see if it was empty and… saw… some really…' he paused, tears offering no distortion to his voice. 'Some really horrible things.'

'What things?'

He bowed his head, face reddened. It sounded like he was about to start sobbing any second. Sherlock craned closer. 'Some…' he whispered. 'Girls l-little girls.'

The detective stood back; the smoke seemed to clear. Everything seemed to fall into place now. He was on the right track.

'What happened then?'

'Well… I did confront him afterwards, in fact I was really hysterical. He slapped the book out of my hand and grabbed me by the wrists. Threatened me, told me to forget what I just saw… but I couldn't. I kept screaming "You're a pedophile! Oh my God Michael you're a pedophile!"… I genuinely had no idea… and then…' One long, juttering breath. 'He beat me for God knows how long. I couldn't stand afterwards; my face looked like a bloody plate of meat… When I was on the floor he threatened to kill me if I ever went to the police. He wrote me out an elaborate story of what he wanted me to say when I went to hospital. It's so weird now… I was bleeding all over our kitchen floor, lips swollen, eye bruised over… and there he was calmly writing out instructions on a little notepad.' He attempted a smile. 'After that he left and I never saw him again.'

Sherlock nodded slowly, taking it in. 'Alright,' he muttered. 'So this "Michael Pitcher"… you haven't seen him in five years?' Colin nodded.

'No… and I intend to keep it that way.'

'So you don't know where he is now?'

'No… but I do remember… my friend Michelle managed to find out where he lived just after we broke up.'

Sherlock's eyes sparked. 'Really?'

'Yeah, yeah, I'll write the address if you really want me to.'

'Yes, please do.' Sherlock took a piece of scrap paper from his pocket and handed it along with a pen. Colin scribbled a quick address down.

'I… I don't know if he's still there,' he said meekly, fiddling with the back of his waistband. 'He didn't like staying in one place for long but was pretty shit at saving money so...'

Sherlock took it from him.

'Thank you. What about his family then, do you anything about his family?' Colin shook his head.

'Like I said… not good at settling down, not sentimental in any way.' He swallowed nervously. 'Can… Can I go now?'

'Have you told me everything you know?'

'Yes! Yes I swear!'

'Fine then.'

'Oh and, Mr. Holmes?'

'Yes?'

'Good luck.'

**Allow me to take this chance to beg you for reviews. Pretty please? I also want to thank xXSherlockian GirlXx for reviewing more than once.**

**But really, this chapter was a long one and I would really really love to get some feedback. **

**Hope you all had a lovely Christmas xxx (Or Hanukah, or Yule, or other celebration.)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello again my lovely readers! I know this is sort of a quick update but I've had bits of this chapter on my files for AGES and just haven't known how to weld the whole thing together… I…I'm not very good with welding… what was I talking about?**

**Oh yeah, and this is probably the creepiest chapter and a little… well, full-on with its brutality, shall we say? **

**Basically, a pretty grim and kind of scary chapter. **

**As always, I would ADORE reviews.**

**Enjoy!**

It was late afternoon. John sat on the sofa next to Mrs. Hudson, who was gently rubbing his back. His face was in his hands.

From the doorway, Sherlock could here faint mutterings of 'Come on John, eat something, you need to eat… how about I get you some biscuits eh? Cup of tea?' John shook his head as Mrs. Hudson raised her own. She caught eyes with Sherlock and stopped. Noticing her, John lifted his head.

His face was a weak, watery mess; his brow was deeply lined, his flesh grey and his eyes pink and ringed. Tears fell like silver wire down his skin.

The minute he met eyes with Sherlock he stood erect, clenching his fists. Mrs Hudson stood, edging past him into the safety of the cluttered kitchen.

They stood facing one another, John's breath ragged, heaving in and out through his nose.

'Now… John, your angry I know, please let me explain…' John took a step forwards and Sherlock braced himself; a slap, a punch… he knew he deserved it.

What he got was much worse.

John's eyes glistened. They held such pain. He shook his head.

'Your fault.' He whispered. 'This is all your fault, Sherlock Holmes.'

Something struck him then. It felt like someone punching his ribs… His heart felt crushed, almost broken… of course it was probably just the activation of the sympathetic nervous system that took place in the bloodstream and is closely regulated by the heart… but that was a part of him that was hardly ever reached; an untouched string of his being that was now being painfully ruptured and torn.

He addressed it with a light frown. 'John,' he croaked. 'You don't understand… I was doing it to _help_ her…'

'You know how long do you really think you can push me with all this bullshit?' A short, huffy laugh. A shake of the head. 'I've put up with it since the minute I've met you but now? No… Not now Sherlock… you _need _to know when to fucking _stop.'_

He swallowed nervously as John ran a threesome of fingers through his ragged hair.

'John,' he said again. 'I… I went to Liverpool for a reason. I couldn't tell you, believe me, I could not tell you.'

'Why? Why not? When have I ever been so unreasonable? I _know_ I live in your shadow; you're the one that's constantly reminding me!'

'You might have insisted on coming…'

'No, Sherlock, if it was for the best I wouldn't have, I really, really, wouldn't have! I'm not an _idiot!' _

The detective shifted uncomfortably. 'I'm sorry John. I really am. I'm sorry.'

John stood. 'So have you actually found anything or? …'

'Yes! An address.'

Surprisingly, John's eyes lit with immediate surprise. 'What?'

'Yes, Michael Pitcher, prime suspect.'

'And you didn't tell me because…'

'Because I…'

'Oh, I remember, because I'm dumber than an ape.'

'No John look…' he took the piece of scrap paper out of his pocket and showed John the address. '…The man who gave it to me was an ex-partner of Michael Pitcher, one who wouldn't be able to function properly in a room of people… extreme social anxiety… he'd do anything to evade the police. Anything; and I got what we needed, didn't I?'

'Well, let's go!'

Sherlock frowned at John, who grabbed his coat from the back of a chair. 'R-Really?'

'Yes, it isn't far, I'm not wasting any time!'

'What about telling Lestrade? It'll be dangerous, it'll be…'

'Sherlock,' he stared him dead-on in the face. 'My daughter's life is at risk here; I think I can do "dangerous" '

Sherlock looked him in the eyes, still frowning.

'Come _on!_' he urged, impatience in his voice.

'Okay! Okay!' he hastily shrugged on his coat and ran out into the freezing rain to hail a cab.

* * *

It was a grey-brick semi. Tall. Narrow. A steep, Victorian basement.

From notable signs it was empty; John ploughed on ahead, the frozen grass crunching beneath his feet. Opposite the house Christmas lights were strung over gutters and low roofs, adding to the emptiness of the eerie, isolated terrain.

Sherlock approached the door.

XL Joinery External Hardwood. Cheap. Carlisle Brass Chrome Butt hinges, the type used in wardrobes; the type that was easy to bust.

Sherlock drew back, before slamming his shoulder hard into the warped wood of the door.

Ash and dust cascaded from the ceiling as one large rotten beam collapsed, landing with a thump on the carpet of the hallway.

'Shit,' he heard John mutter.

He raised his head and soon saw why: The place was a mess. More than a mess. It was hoarded; boxes were piled high , providing a difficult and narrow pathway for the two to squeeze through. The carpet was undistinguishable beneath the piles of filthy clothes and the towers of comics and books. Whilst ascending the stinking stairs Sherlock saw an assortment of porn magazines strewn in small paper tents.

The bannister too was on the brink of rot; the cream walls were now stained coffee-brown with neglect, liquor bottled clustered on each carpeted step and weights huddled in molded corners.

Sherlock lifted his head.

Something was well and truly off about the place; not just it's obvious awful state and its structure on the brink of collapse… but the sinking, quivering feeling that they weren't alone.

The eeriness alone of the squalor was enough to send one's mind racing…but the primitive instinct of another presence made Sherlock want to turn sharply. He didn't panic; panic kills neurons. But nothing could stop the shivers of distress signals slamming through the synapses of his natural reflex. Instead, he took John's arm at the top of the stairs. 'Something isn't right,' he muttered.

'You think so?'

'No, John, I mean there's someone else here.'

'Michael?'

Sherlock looked around, frowning. 'No… he would have heard us…' He then turned to John, running a quick analysis over his coat. 'Revolver.'

'What?'

'You've not got your revolver in your jacket.'

'Sherlock, I've not had the revolver in my jacket since…' he stopped himself abruptly. 'So… you…you think there's someone here?'

'Yes,' he looked around distractedly before choosing the doorway into Michael's bedroom. 'Be on your guard.'

Sherlock touched the door to the bedroom. It was jammed. With a sigh he took a step to the side and rammed his body into it, causing the door to swing open. As both men staggered inside, they were greeted with a horrific rotting smell, as well as an avalanche of comic books to fall at their feet.

'Oh Jesus Christ!' John stuffed a sleeved hand over his nose and mouth. 'What's that _smell_?' Sherlock froze. He knew what that smell was.

The room was unbelievably cluttered; typical hoarder. There were empty plastic crates piled high, boxes filled with dirty laundry and food packets littering the ground. John picked his way through the mess, hand still pressed firmly against his nose and mouth. Video games were stacked in unruly towers, some having collapsed into plastic piles. Cupboards were decorated with Legend of Zelda posters, the carpet reduced to mucky black gaps.

Sherlock, still frozen, seemed oblivious to the mess that surrounded him. He instead, very slowly, sunk low, leaning on his haunches. The smell was stronger now, horrific, pungent… flies mingled in the thick, rotting air as Sherlock kneeled and took his torch from his pocket. An unintelligible shape was made out beneath the bed as he flicked the light on.

A girl. Lying dead, her face turned away, flies swilling around her body.

'John?' Sherlock said hoarsely.

'Yeah?' John said absent-mindedly. Sherlock swallowed.

'There's a body under here.' There was a clatter of crates as John whipped around rapidly.

'What?!'

He shone the torch further beneath the bed. There were tiny little stubs where her fingers should be, her hands lying limp by her sides and her legs in a tangle. She was fair-haired, about three years old. Sherlock lowered his head. John was soon at his side. He eyed the small corpse with sorrow. 'What… what shall we do?' he asked quietly. Sherlock straightened up.

'Get around the other side of the bed and try to get some pictures of her face,' he said, his face flustered and his voice distracted. John swallowed anxiously.

'Ok.'

'I'll search the room for anything else.'

John skirted the bed, reproachfully leaning down on the other side and taking his phone out of his pocket. Sherlock hastily opened and closed cupboards. Many just contained video games. All but one, which held what looked like a pickle jar.

Squinting, Sherlock tried to decipher what was in the darkened jar. A glint of white flesh. He jerked backwards in horrified shock, heart racing.

In the jar were human fingers.

'What?' John perked his head up at his husband's shock.

'Um…' Sherlock was panting as his hands fumbled to shut the cupboard door. 'Fingers.'

John's face turned into a grimace. 'Really?'

'Yeah… John? I really want to get out of here. This whole place it's just…' he shook his head, turning to face the ceiling.

'Not before we've checked it all.' He gave one last snap on his phone before sliding it into his pocket and getting up of the ground. Sherlock wrenched the door open one last time, freeing them both from the horrible room. Once out into the hallway he breathed heavily.

'Let's have a look then,' he said, gesturing to John for the phone. John obediently flipped it out of his pocket and handed it to the detective. The girl had small pigtails in, open blue eyes that were staring straight into the camera. Her face was grubby enough to see a neat trail of tears etched down her grey, purpling flesh. 'Sophie,' he muttered. 'Sophie Young.'

John sighed sadly, switching off the phone until it rested back in his pocket. 'Where should we check next?'

Sherlock thought for a second.

'This thing has a basement, doesn't it?'

'Um… yeah,' John said reproachfully, wondering if they were on the track to more grim discoveries.

* * *

The basement was cold and pitch black. Three slimy stone steps led down into the chilling space, which was again packed tightly with empty boxes. Sherlock switched on the torch, using the light to creep up the length of the dripping walls. Green moss clung to tall stone pillars and a boxy floor. Victorian structure; most likely built in 1825, around the time that the Fleet sewers were constructed…

'Sherlock!' John hissed. Turning, Sherlock met eyes with John. 'Did you hear that?'

'Hear what?'

'It sounded like someone whimpering.'

Sherlock began to breathe slowly; he may be massively asexual when it came to human emotion but he felt that whatever was making the noise he needed to mentally prepare himself for.

'Should I…' John gestured to the two cardboard boxes blocking his way. The torchlight made a neat white circle on the clammy grey.

'Go ahead.' John nudged one of the boxes aside, shining the light on what he saw.

Another girl, her wrist tethered to the stone wall. Her face was a startling pale in this light, her hair knotted and greasy. She groaned, shifting her head away from John's blinding torch, her face a grimy mess. A gag was jammed roughly between her teeth, tied so tightly that what little flesh she had on her face bulged over the taunt, grubby edges of fabric. Her legs were lying in a messy tangle, giving her an almost drugged appearance, head lolling on the black, clammy walls. She looked about Eve's age.

Suddenly she turned, her eyes widening as she fully gained consciousness. At the sight of the two men her face fell in horror and dread, as she began bucking and screaming pitifully.

'Now it's alright!' Sherlock tried to say. The gag massively restricted her but John could make out the messy syllables of the word "Mum-my." It made his own eyes sting with tears. 'We're not going to hurt you, we're here to help you, we're detectives, see?' He tried showing her his I.D badge, only to be greeted with more horrible, muffled screaming. Sherlock squinted, suddenly realizing that her neck was twisted at an odd angle.

'We swear, we're here to take you home,' John tried. He attempted to reach forwards, only to be stopped by Sherlock.

'She's traumatized,' he muttered.

'It's o-kay,' John said again, more slowly. He took a baby-step nearer, trying to reach up and untie her wrist from the wall. He was greeted with a forceful kick to the thigh. 'Alright then,' he said calmly, backing away. The girl stopped, scrambling backwards into a small ball. She was shivering violently, analyzing the situation. Her breathing became less frantic as the three merely sat there in silence.

'Can we help you now?' Sherlock asked softly.

There was no response.

'We know you've been through a lot, but we're here to help, we promise.' She tried what looked like a nod, only to be restrained by something tugging on her head. Her neck was still forced back.

'Ok, thank you.' Sherlock put the torch in his mouth, slowly leaning forwards to untie the rough rope from the child's wrist. Her arm flopped to the ground, wrist rubbed raw, hand swollen and red. John leaned forwards and pulled the gag from her mouth. She gasped, raking well-needed air into her lungs. As John turned her over he noticed that her other hand was knotted and tangled in her hair_. To stop her struggling,_ he thought.

He sighed, trying to unknot her hair from her skinny wrist without pulling too much. 'What's your name?'

She gasped, still shaking. 'M-Maggie.'

'Maggie Lee?'

'Y-yes.'

John united her long hair from around her hands, gently moving her head back into its normal stance.

Maggie Lee was a scrap of a girl, with lily-white limbs and a grubby, vomit-stained school uniform. Sherlock remembered now; she was the daughter of a small Asian family in the west of London, one of their newest missing.

'Do you know if there are any other girls in this house?' Sherlock asked, slowly but loudly.

'Sherlock,' John said gently. 'Do you think we should leave questions till later?'

Maggie gasped, her knees practically knocking. 'I came here with… he took me and Sophie…'

'Took you?' Sherlock frowned; Sophie's disappearance was no-where near Maggie's. Her eyes brimmed with tears. 'But then he took Sophie upstairs and—'

A loud creak.

All three froze.

So he was home…


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello everyone! Sorry I've been away for a bit… again, another creepy chapter, although not quite as bad as the last. **

**Enjoy!**

Sherlock and John turned simultaneously towards the open basement door, letting in a neat rectangle of yellow light. 'Sherlock!' John hissed.

'Shh.'

'Oh no, oh no, oh no!' Maggie groaned. The shivering was out of control now, her whole form wobbling dangerously. John scrambled backwards until he was sat next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders defensively. She forced her hands over her eyes. 'Oh no, oh no oh no oh no oh no!' Her whimpers turned to feeble shrieks as Sherlock stood, before flicking off the torch.

_'__Sherlock!' _John hissed again, as Maggie screamed in reaction to the darkness. He could feel her long, deer-like arms wrap around his middle as she buried her face into his jumper; he felt as if he were holding a trapped baby bird.

'Ma-ggie…' Footsteps. Michael's taunting voice traveling into the basement. A great hush fell over the two adults as Maggie resumed her quiet whimpering into the fabric of John's shirt.

'He's coming,' she sobbed. John gently placed a hand on the back of her soft head.

'Magg-ie—' His darkened silhouette came into focus at the dark doorway. He was tall. Intimidating. He stopped suddenly. 'Maggie?' Voice ringing. 'Maggie, why is this door open?'

John could see Sherlock shift silently, flattening himself against a cold, slimy wall. John himself got to his feet, picking Maggie up and carrying her into a corner, behind one of the boxes.

Michael took one menacing step onto the first stair. 'That was a bad thing to do Maggie,' he was still talking softly. 'You've made very angry… You _know_ what happens when I get angry…'

John's heart was racing. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her shady form curled tightly, trying not to jog the cardboard with her trembles.

Michael had walked himself to the centre of the room. He turned his head from side to side and sighed. 'It looks like Maggie isn't where I left her.' One more step. Another and their cover would be blown.

'She can't have been gone long though; she's only just pissed herself.' John could see Sherlock's face opposite him. He was scowling, his eyes trained on Michael like a predator ready to attack.

'I'll take a little finger or a little toe if need be.' His voice was hardening now. He was getting angry. From John's right, Maggie gave a tiny squeak of fear, only to clap her hand to her mouth. Michael whipped around furiously. Sherlock saw his chance.

Michael was on the ground in less than a second. He gave a scream as the air was knocked out of him, his shoulder colliding with the hard concrete.

The screaming pursued as he gasped for air, Sherlock kneeling on top of him and giving him one hard punch in the face. His hands scrambled upwards in the dark, trying to feel for Sherlock, only to be punched again, harder. Maggie was still sobbing.

But it didn't take long for him to get his bearings. He seized Sherlock by the coat lapels, wrenching his body into the air and throwing him into one of the cardboard boxes. With a painful smack, Sherlock sent an avalanche of cardboard down on top of him.

John pelted forwards as Michael began to slowly pick himself up. 'Maggie!' Michael hissed. 'Where the fuck are you?' John pinned his head to the ground again. Not expecting the attack, there was another scream, before the doctor pulled back his hand and punched him square in the throat.

There was a desperate gasp for air before Michael's head fell, with a soft thump, and landed on the ground.

Panting, John got to his feet. Sherlock stood slowly, brushing little pigments of ash from his body. They met, standing around Michael's silent body.

'Fractured trachea?'

'Yep.'

'Should be out for a good half hour then.'

Maggie was crying softly. John went to retrieve her, slowly helping her to her feet. He took her by the hand, slowly leading her out of the basement. 'I'll call the police,' he called. Sherlock didn't respond. He instead leaned down next to Michael, frowning. 'Be careful, Sherlock,' he said, before taking Maggie into the hallway.

She gripped tightly onto his hand, squinting in the sudden light. He struggled with the front door, kicking another empty cardboard box out of the way.

Soon they were both outside, in the freezing winter air. 'What now?' Maggie asked. Her breathe fogged.

'We're going to call for the police.' She let out a sigh of relief.

'Can I go home then?'

'Of course you can…' John began punching in the number. 'Hello? Yes, police please. We've uncovered a missing child and her kidnapper. No no, she's safe… and he's unconscious.' He told them the address, before sliding the phone back into his pocket.

There was a pause.

'Will he wake up?' She squeaked.

'No, he definitely won't.'

'How do you know?'

'I'm a doctor, I know how to fracture people.'

'Are… are my Mummy and Daddy okay?'

'They're fine, sweetheart… they've been worried sick about you.' Something sparked in his mind. He brought the phone back out of his pocket, scrolling through his contact list.

'What are you doing?'

'Would you like to have a speak with your Mummy?' Her face lit up.

'Yes! Yes please!'

'Ok then, hang on.' He jabbed the call button, putting the phone to his ear. 'Hello?'

'Hello?' the voice on the other end was male; fatigued and anxious. 'Mr. Watson, is something wrong?'

'No, actually Mr. Lee…,' John glanced down at Maggie's beaming little face. 'We've found Maggie. She's safe.'

All of a sudden there was a scream from the other end. John had to move the receiver away from his ear. '_Maggie's alive!? Oh thank God thank God thank God!'_ Lee sounded so overjoyed it was almost saddening. His voice held no definition anymore; it was just elated, screeching noise. '_Where is she?!_' Mrs. Lee's happy screaming came invading in from beside his voice.

'She's right here, I'll put her on now.' He passed the phone to a jumping Maggie.

'Mummy? Daddy?' More muffled screaming. 'Mummy I'm safe now I'm safe!' She was squealing, in spite of the tears and vomit that coated her face. John felt his eyes well. He was silently begging with each atom in his body that he and Sherlock would have the same good fortune as the Lees.

Police sirens.

The familiar yellow-and-blue lights came flashing down the lane as John turned towards the house. He put a hand on Maggie's shoulder and squeezed it gently as she nattered long and hard with her parents. A policeman stood out of the door carrying a blanket. He made his way towards Maggie, kneeling down to her level. 'Maggie, I think you should come off the phone for a minute now,' John prompted gently. She nodded.

'Mummy, Daddy, the policeman's here… bye-bye, Love you both…' She pressed off and passed the phone back up to John. More policemen and women were unloaded from the car. There was a low muttering of "are you alright?" to Maggie, until an officer with choppy dark hair approached John. She was tall, her features large but attractive.

'Sir, are you the person that called us?'

'Um yes… and Michael's just through here, in the house.'

'Alone?'

'No, um, my husband Sherlock's with him,' John muttered distractedly, already making his way up the frozen path. His heart pounded in worry. What if he'd already woken up? What if Sherlock was in danger?

'You said he was unconscious didn't you?' the officer repeated, following.

'Yeah, it all should be fine.' There was a long pause, in which John looked back to check on Maggie. They were out of earshot. 'Hey… look,' he said, his voice low. The officer stopped at the door.

'Is something wrong?'

'It's just that… the body of Sophie Young was found in the bedroom.' She lowered her dark eyes, nodding slowly.

'I see,' she muttered sadly.

Another pause. John let his shoulder's fall, shook his head, and then pushed the door.

To his surprise, Sherlock stood in the doorway.

'Sherlock?' The detective was holding the arm of an unconscious Michael. The officer took two huge steps backwards, speaking loudly into the receiver on the breast of her shirt:

'We have the criminal here, at the doorway, please clear the area and bring two assisting officers, thank you.'

More sirens wailed. An ambulance.

'Is the girl still around?' Sherlock craned his neck past John. Maggie was being lifted into the back of an ambulance by one of the paramedics. Her little school-shirt rumpled as she did so.

'She's… Sherlock, why is he here?!'

'Well I had to be ready didn't I?' The officer's radio crackled as two policemen came darting up the path. They approached, panting, their cheeks rosy.

'We'll take him,' one said, shoving past the female officer. Sherlock sighed, before obediently transferring Michael's lean arm onto one of the policemen. His head stirred groggily. He cracked one eye open.

'Where… where am I?' he mumbled. The younger policeman handcuffed him.

'Michael Pitcher, I am arresting you for kidnapping.'

'What?'

But before he could say anymore, he was being led down the pathway and into a police car.

John looked up at Sherlock who was staring straight ahead, a frown on his face. He stepped out of the doorway to make way for two more officers.

Then, without a word, he placed a hand between John's shoulder-blades and slowly led him down the path and into the eerie, empty pavement.

**Thank you so much for reading and reviews would be very, VERY much appreciated! ****J**


	8. Chapter 8

**REALLY SORRY I HAVEN'T UPDATED! **

**My laptop basically had a massive brain-fart and was out of order for a week or two... So I'm sorry I couldn't update or reply to reviews! (having said that, thank you xXSherlockianGirlXx _again _for reviewing, you've been an absolute angel, and for the guest review that I couldn't have replied to anyway. Thank you so much!)**

**Hopefully it will all be back to normal soon. It's been a big hassle uploading this chapter but I've loved writing it, as always (:**

**Enjoy!**

The room was uncomfortably hot.

Sherlock sat across from Michael. Both faces were impassive, intelligent, brains working overtime behind them.

Michael exhaled loudly. Sherlock had begged Lestrade for this opportunity, for this interview, anything he could do to break the man he would… but Pitcher wasn't speaking.

The detective turned his gaze towards the assisting officer; She was scrappy, young, with a blonde ponytail and large brown eyes_. Can't wait for the holidays_ Sherlock thought_. Lucky Bugger_.

Two minutes passed. The clock ticked. Michael sat back, stretching his arms out behind his head. 'I know you think that not saying anything will keep you out of trouble,' Sherlock muttered, 'but we still have reason to arrest you on the abduction of Maggie Lee and Sophie Young.'

Michael laughed. It was a laugh that said _Wow, you really are stupid_. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Mr. Holmes, I have no intention of denying what I've done,' he said, glancing tiredly at his hands. 'I'm rather proud of it infact… three months I had the little bitches in my bed, and not a breath of word from the police.' His eyes changed. Something flickered within them, just fleetingly; fear. He brought his hands back and ran his fingers through his knotted hair.

Sherlock's heart was racing. They were so close now, so close to finding Eve.

'Do you admit to kidnapping Sophie Young and Maggie Lee?' The smile was back again. Michael was marveling at Sherlock's ignorance. Toying with him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. 'No…' he muttered. 'Not both of them… just… Just Sophie?'

A satisfied nod. A smirk. Michael was enjoying this.

'Maggie was taken by someone else. You traded with them… argued a good price?'

Another nod.

'There's a big group of you but you work closely. Everyone knows what the other is doing.'

'Very _good,' _Michael said. His eyes were green and sly. 'I was beginning to doubt the famous detective.'

Sherlock thought for a second. After a beats pause he continued. 'Generic statements; pedophile networks are some of the most reliable and sophisticated motors ever to run their course.' Michael was tapping one finger on the table. 'And if one of them puts a single toe out of line…' Michael stopped, slamming his thumb down hard, as if squashing an ant. 'Typical,' Sherlock muttered. 'You all think you're _so _original.'

'Can't argue with what works.'

'Indeed.'

'And sitting me in this room and having a staring contest… how's that working?'

'Well I'd love to argue…'

'But if you put a toe out of line,' the thumb came down again. He'd hit his hand so hard that it was a wonder it wasn't broken. 'This case means a lot to you, doesn't it? I can tell… you're not supposed to be here. It's usually some fat wanker with a notepad.'

'Either that or you read the news.'

He smiled again.

'So about this network,' Sherlock said. 'Are you going to co-operate or do we have to starve you out for a couple of days?'

Michael laughed. 'Think the government might have a bit of a problem with that, don't you?'

'My brother _is _the government.'

Another pause. Michael's tongue probed the inside of his cheek. 'Torture won't work on me, Mr. Holmes. I'd just enjoy it.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He needed to get some information out of him and fast; everything else was trivial.

'Do you want to know why I do what I do?' Michael sat back in his chair. Sherlock sighed heavily.

'I don't really care,' he muttered.

'Well,' Michael leaned forwards on the table, pursing his hands. 'A lot of the things we're sexually attracted to are primal things, for example: a man likes a woman with large hips because she can bear his children better… it's all about reproduction.'

'Six-year-olds can't reproduce,' Holmes said bitterly.

'A-ha, but youth is _one_ of those attractive, primal elements. It's normal for a man to like young girls the same way it's normal for a man to like female breasts, again with the reproduction thing… but only a few men like the incredibly _exaggerated_ version of large breasts; you know, the boob-fetish community.'

A pause.

'Are you quite finished?'

'No. See some men like exaggerated sexual organs the same way they like exaggerated youth. You can't help what you're into I mean,' he gave a quick, huffy laugh 'you're a faggot, for fucks sake!'

He gave a slow, tired blink. Michael leaned ever-closer, his eyes narrowing. 'I can't help liking children, Mr. Holmes, the same way you can't help liking men.'

'If we must discuss this, may I point out that I don't go around _raping_ men.'

'And I wouldn't rape children if there was a child who'd want to sleep with me.'

'Well you rather enjoy tying them up in your basement, mutilating them, murdering them and torturing them, don't you?'

'There was no outlet for me; those were just bad habits.'

'Oh I _am_ sorry,' Sherlock said sarcastically. 'I'll have the council create a sadist support group.'

Michael let out a great sigh, sitting back in his chair. He swiveled on it a few times, eyeing Sherlock with almost a look of contempt. 'So did you want me to answer some questions?'

'Yes. We'd like to know is you recognize any of these girls,' he reached into his pockets, pulling out a thick wad of photographs. They landed with a slap on the table, face-up with a picture of a blond girl wearing a princess dress and pink butterfly face-paint. Michael took his time straightening up and leaning over to touch the edges of the paper. He looked from Sherlock to the photographs, smirked, and took them in his clammy palm.

Sherlock glared as he flicked through each one, the smirk still on his face. Sometimes his eyes would spark or he'd mutter a quiet laugh. After about one minute he stopped, staring at one of the girls. His eyes rotated between the detective and the girl.

'Well?'

Michael slid the picture out, showing it to Sherlock.

It was Eve.

Sherlock swallowed.

'You recognize her?' he asked, trying to remain calm.

Michael chortled. 'Must be fresh out of your wallet, this one,' he tapped her face.

'Do you recognize her?' he repeated, irritation creeping into his voice.

'Oh yeah,' he licked his lips, dropping the photos out onto the table. They splayed like a deck of playing cards, the faces of stolen daughters. 'I recognize all of them.'

Panic flared in Sherlock's stomach. 'You do? How?'

'Because I've fucking _raped_ them all!' He threw his head back and laughed. Sherlock dug his nails into his pale wrist.

'Michael,' he said calmly, who was still laughing. His laughs slowly petered into silence.

'Oh Sherlock,' he said, still smiling. He shook his head. 'You have no clue what you're getting yourself into do you?' he leaned forwards, face close to Sherlock's who jerked away in surprise. 'I'm but a cog in a very large and very intricate clockwork of criminals… I mean nothing to you! I won't make you any closer to finding your precious daughter!'

'I think I'll be the judge of that.'

'Believe me; you may be smart but hundreds of us combined makes us so much smarter!' he was hissing now, still face-to-face. 'The minute you lock me away, another pedophile will be in need of a child… and believe me, we will welcome him with open arms!'

'Who is 'we?''

'We circulate in a very close-knit community; you were right…we all know what everyone else is doing,' Michael's voice was beginning to heighten in pitch, as if he were about to burst into tears. His eyes bore a maddening, saddening glint. 'That's why I'll never walk out of here!'

'You fucking well won't!'

'No!' he suddenly seized hold of Sherlock, dragging him up off his chair. Before he could react, he was tightly embraced in Michael's arms. The assisting officer bolted towards the two as tears fell from Michael's eyes and he whispered 'I'll never walk out of here _alive!_' Before Sherlock could blink or struggle, a gun was whipped out from down the neck of Michael's shirt and jammed into the roof of his mouth.

_'No!'_ Sherlock's scream coupled with a loud bang as the assisting officer hauled their bodies apart just in time. They both flew apart, blood shooting in the air from the back of Michael's skull as his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed to the ground, the gun spiraling from his bloody hand.

Panting, Sherlock gathered himself to his feet, along with the assisting officer. 'Are you okay?' she asked, breathless, but the detective's eyes were pinned on the dead man at his feet, anger filling his face.

'What's going on!?' it was Lestrade, who'd materialized at the open door, his eyes wide. They became wider when they fell on Michael. 'Jesus Christ!'

All of a sudden he felt strong hands on his shirt, and turned to see the livid face of Sherlock. _'Why didn't you check him?!'_ he shrieked, shaking Lestrade roughly. Bewildered, Lestrade struggled._ 'That's your job isn't it?! Why didn't you check to see if he had a gun?!'_ The panicked assisting officer came between them, roughly yanking Sherlock's hands away from the neck of Lestrade's shirt.

A second passed as Sherlock slowly staggered backwards, panting, until his back met with the wall. Lestrade kept his distance, straightening his shirt. 'I'm sorry Sherlock,' he said slowly. The assisting officer was still between them, slowly turning her head between both men, ponytail swishing as she did so. Still panting, Sherlock closed his eyes, turning his pained expression to face the ceiling. 'We did check him, I… I don't know how he managed to sneak a gun past us—'

'It doesn't matter anyway,' Sherlock muttered, dropping his head to stare at Michael. 'He wasn't going to tell us anything... He was too scared; if he managed to get out of here he'd be eradicated by the mother ship. That's how these things work. Micheal was being followed from the moment he left his house. It's typical of any gang of criminals. Each member has their own guardian angel with a gun.'

The assisting officer gently let her outstretched arms fall. 'How about we step outside, eh?' she said softly. Sherlock looked up. 'I'll make us a cup of tea.'

**Again, reviews would be very much appreciated especially as to how much fuss this chapter took ;D**


	9. Chapter 9

Michael Pitcher was a liar.

That's what Sherlock thought as he sat jogging his knee in the waiting room of Scotland Yard. He couldn't have touched Eve; pedophiles favor the innocence of children. Pedophilia could be a hugely prominent attraction to virginity. If Eve were to have any worth in this mess then she couldn't have been tainted in any way.

It gave Sherlock a short bout of relief to think that his daughter may still have her virginity intact, but he knew that it wouldn't stay that way for long. Eve could be anywhere by now. She could have been sold to anyone.

He bowed his head before standing slowly. His hands still shook from the shock of Michael's death. He watched them as he opened the door into Lestrade's office.

Lestrade was sitting at Michael's computer looking like he was about to cry. His hands were pursed by his mouth and his eyes were glued to the screen, eyebrows laced in sadness. 'Oh,' he said, noticing Sherlock. 'Hi.'

'Have you found anything?'

Lestrade took his hands from his mouth and turned the laptop so that it was facing the detective.

A girl of about seven was lying naked on a bed. Sherlock quickly turned his head from the screen. Shock seemed to have slapped him in the face for the second time that day.

'There are hundreds like that,' Lestrade said sadly. 'They're all grade 4 stuff.'

'Have you…' Sherlock swallowed, his eyes still angled away from the laptop. 'Have you found anything about the network?'

Lestrade blew out through his lips. 'We've installed some software to try and hack into his internet history.'

He typed something into the keyboard of the computer as Sherlock came to join him.

'How very traditional,' Sherlock muttered. 'He's labeled it as "work stuff".' Lestrade turned his head slightly.

'Um… Sherlock?'

'Yes?'

'You know you don't have to see this, don't you?'

'Because you think I might see Eve on his computer and make a scene?'

He fidgeted in his seat for a second. 'Well… yeah.'

Sherlock inhaled. 'I'm sure I can manage Graham.'

'Greg.'

'Yeah. That.'

The website they found seemed like a strange hybrid of a chatroom and a porn site; it took some digging to finally find some evidence of the girls.

Someone had taken the liberty of constructing a page of faces… they found Maggie's immediately.

'Maggie Lee, six years old, sold…' Lestrade turned to Sherlock, a mixture of graveness and confusion on his face.

'Lauren Bell, eight years old, Unclean.' Sherlock felt the colour drain from his face.

'Unclean, does that mean—'

'Yes.'

'Oh…' Lestrade lifted his hands and dragged it over his face. '_Je_sus!' The detective swallowed nervously, continuing to click through the disturbing profiles. It was as if his hands couldn't stop.

'Annabel Roth, seven years old, unclean.'

'Jesus.'

'Malorie Howards, six years old, unclean,'

'Jesus!'

'Carly Bennet, _five _years old, unclean,'

Lestrade stood, walking briskly to the other side of the room. He didn't say a word but Sherlock could tell how distressed he was. He could hear the shuffle of fingers as he bowed his head and covered his face with his hands.

Looking back, Sherlock continued to read out again. He knew already that whatever he was going to find he wasn't going to like. His hands were shaking uncontrollably and his heart pounding beneath his shirt… but he just couldn't steady the frantic tap of the mouse.

'Cassie Larkin…' he clenched his face as he read her age. '_Three years old… _unclean.'

_'__Christ, stop reading them Sherlock!_' Lestrade bellowed. He was by his side, his face massively maladjusted and troubled.

Sherlock clicked once more.

He knew her little face immediately.

He knew those sweet blue eyes… only now they were blurred and murky. He knew those zealous black curls… only now they were unkempt and tangled. And he knew that smiling mouth, only now it was imprisoned beneath a gag of duct tape.

His heart seemed to freeze in his chest. The room contorted and his throat was plugged with a suffocating lump… although he never had a chance to pause. He continued to talk, his voice like a runaway train that didn't know when to stop.

'Eve Holmes, six years old, unclean.'

Lestrade turned slowly, his face full of sorrow. Sherlock, still dazed, his eyes fixed on the screen, fell hunched-over into Lestrade's seat.

The words burned on the screen. Unclean. In what way? _How_ unclean? By how many people?

His eyes scanned over a brief description of her_: "Young and only slightly used, skinny, pale, with an English accent. We found her to be rather obedient. May suffer withdrawal symptoms. Going with a starting price of 100, 000 at our next auction."_

The screen blurred. Tears slowly rolled down Sherlock's impassive face. He was breathing heavily, skin drained of all couler. His fists were clenched in his lap. His heart seemed to sting as he read the words over and over again… They treated her like a collector's item.

Before he knew it, Sherlock was marching from the room. 'Sherlock? Sherlock?' Lestrade called after him.

Soon he was out, in the busy haze of ringing phones and office workers. He walked straight through them without pause, causing them to struggle and scatter out of his path.

He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to think. His feet began to quicken in pace as he found the nearest door and slammed it open.

It was the men's bathroom. He hastily locked one of the cubicle doors and sat himself on the closed lid.

His elbows were on his knees and his head in his hands. He sobbed quietly, shoulders jerking, eyes burning. The sound of his crying echoed through the empty room. He was like a school child hiding from conflict, only this kind was very, very real...there were too many things to think about… His brain flitted through his memories of Eve, the memories of his happy little child.

There he closed his eyes and thought:

_There'd never been a prettier toddler._

_'__Fish!' Eve exclaimed, stabbing her small finger at the glass tank. She was wearing wellies and a pink hello kitty anorak. Two strands of black hair dangled from her hood like glossy liquorish. _

_Sherlock kneeled to her level; she'd nagged to be taken to the aquarium for weeks._

_'__Yes… do you like it here?' he wrapped one slender hand around her soft middle. _

_'__Yes it's perfect!' she nodded, grinning. Sherlock couldn't resist nuzzling at her collarbone. She smelt beautiful, of gingerbread and fresh linen. He was pretty sure that merely standing near her sent his serotonin levels through the roof. _

_He kissed her again, savoring the moment. Her huge almond-shaped eyes were fixed on the tank. 'Dad! Dad! Hammerhead! Hammerhead!' she squealed, jumping up and down. She turned to face him and lifted her arms up in the air. 'Up! Up!' Sherlock obediently scooped her up. She wrapped one arm around the back of his neck, the other pointing. Her hood had fallen from her head, making her shiny pre-Raphaelite curls tickle Sherlock's face. _

_Oxytocin; another thing that primed Sherlock's reward-giving hormones into action. He may be a sociopath but he'd quite happily fallen prey to nature's parental instinctiveness. _

_Kiss kiss kiss. Her cheeks were pale and smooth. John appeared beside them, smiling as Eve expertly named each fish that swam by. _

_Kiss kiss kiss. Her face was so white. Pure, virginal. And that's how it would stay. No matter what happened to her, Eve would always be his unblemished baby girl._

The thought calmed him. He lifted his head slightly, sucking himself back to the harsh reality.

Someone was hammering on the door. 'Sherlock?' It was John. Sherlock lowered his head again. There were three more vicious punches. _'__Sherlock?'_

Sherlock reluctantly got to his feet and dragged himself to unlock the door.

John's face was just as fraught with sadness as his own. His eyes were red and moist and he was looking at Sherlock like a parent who's about to comfort their child. Sherlock could sense underlying distress in John's expression, although it was hidden beneath a mask of composure.

They held each other and said nothing; their faces were streaming silently, their lungs bursting to weep, yet neither stirred. They just stood, holding the other, supporting the other, like feeble houses ready to collapse.

***Wipes single, self- indulgent tear.***

**I'm back!**

**(sorry, a lot of tests!) **

**I have to admit it was pretty horrible to have to write the sexualization of children…ugh… but PLEASE review as I would love to hear from you!**

**Evangeline xxx**


	10. Chapter 10

**My next update will be on the 9****th****of March. Usual triggers, reviews would be lovely.**

One empty seat at the dinner table. Unopened, unwrapped presents. A family torn apart.

Christmas Eve.

Sherlock had barely noticed.

He'd been wrenched into a merciless cycle of grief, thrashed from side to side, fear of unknowing, pain of truth, sadness of loss, and the ever-mounting frustration of how further and further apart his chances of ever holding his girl again were.

He sat in Eve's room, head resting on Queen Elsa's stomach, knees to his chest and Michael's laptop balanced on top. He felt filthy to be looking at such pictures, especially within a six year olds bedroom, but he knew that each shameful click brought him closer to potential evidence.

The weak, watery winter light flooded through Eve's window; she'd been given two strings of tinsel and a loop of Christmas lights to do with what she pleased, resulting in a rather festive bedpost… Sherlock could see from across the room that her teddies were gathering dust.

He'd opened a chat room conversation that had happened between Michael and a man called Isaac just a couple of days before.

**Michael:** Just heard from Geoff what you did on the trip to auction. You dirty buggar (;

**Isaac:** What? I couldn't help myself xD

**Michael:** surprised he didn't rip you a new arsehole.

**Isaac:** Nah m8

**Michael:** So how many girls was it?

**Isaac:** Not many… four or five.

**Michael:** Lucky (; Which ones?

**Isaac:** Lucy Jade the two Rachel's and the one with the black hair.

**Michael:** The black hair? Eve or Mary?

**Isaac:** Eve. She was too doped to give a fuck

**Michael:** She was one of the first ones I took. I was saving her for myself you prick!

**Isaac:** Maybe you'll get lucky at the next auction

**Michael:** Yeah when is that? Geoff never told me

**Isaac:** the 24th of December

**Michael:** A sex slave's not just for Christmas, it's for life xD

**Isaac:** x'D

**Michael:** Which one's the cheapest ?

**Isaac:** Mary, the fat kid with the glasses

**Michael:** Eww…

**Isaac:** How's your Asian girl doing?

**Michael:** Maggie can't talk much, she's too busy choking on my cock

**Isaac:** Sick fuck

**Michael:** I'm not the one getting down and dirty with the girls in the van…

The chat ended there.

Sherlock breathed heavily for a couple of seconds, eyes wide and dazed.

And then.

Anger.

It immersed him entirely, filling every crack and bone in his body.

He was sick to death with this. He was sick of dealing with disgusting men. He was sick of making horrific discoveries. And he was sick of reading about all that had happened to his child yet being powerless to stop it.

He wrenched himself to his feet and gave the wall a violent punch.

Blood blossomed on his knuckles, a sure sign that he was still alive. He leaned his forehead against Anna and thought about his daughter, who may be being stripped of her innocence right at that very second.

All of a sudden his eyes snapped open; the auction was today. Dropping to the floor he checked Isaac's profile; a virtual list of all the young girls he'd violated and a collection of home-taken photographs.

He put his hands to his mouth and thought for a second… he then flicked through the pictures of molested girls. Five he recognized. With adrenalin fresh within him he sprang and shot out of the room, into the kitchen.

Lestrade had given him a copy of the map he'd highlighted where the girls had last been seen. He plucked it from John's bag and sprawled it out onto the filthy table, nibbling his lip. There was a temptation to laugh in triumph when he realized Isaac's mistake: All five girls in the photographs were taken in a constellation of cul-de-sacs in the East of London. From what Sherlock had gathered he knew that Isaac didn't regularly get girls from auction, more he took them for his own personal satisfaction… and it seemed he had a hankering for the exact same group of girls on the exact same group of streets.

Sherlock gave a low chuckle and contacted his homeless network with the information and the names of the streets. Within minutes he had responses.

'Yoo-hoo,' Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway.

'Not now Mrs. Hudson,' Sherlock muttered, head bent over his phone. Watching him, she cocked her head to one side.

'Oh Sherlock,' she said sympathetically. 'I really think you should be talking more to John at a time like this,'

'At a time like what?'

'Well…' she raised her shoulders as if searching for an adequate response. '…it is Christmas. And this whole Eve business it's…' She lowered her head a little. 'Perhaps something you should talk about…. You know… as parents…'

'Evie isn't dead Mrs. Hudson.'

She lifted her head, shocked. 'No, no I wasn't suggesting—'

'She's being sold in auction today by a ring of pedophiles.'

_'__What?!' _

'And talking with John won't help me find out where,' he leaned over towards the computer to open up an image file someone had sent him.

'Oh!' Mrs. Hudson squeaked, turning to leave.

'Appreciate your concern!' Sherlock called after her. He narrowed his eyes a little at the picture.

The man looked a little like Michael did, only younger. He couldn't have been older than twenty-one, with a frizzy mop of dark hair and olive-brown skin. He sported typically Arabic features, and appeared to be shambling along a road with his hands in his pockets. A member of his homeless network had sent the picture with the words: "looks suspicious." Three more texts arrived with the same man in different stances , all of which with similar taglines. Sherlock stood, took his coat, and set off towards the address. Head bent and face sullen, he slipped a thick cord of rope, a heavy vase and something else into John's bag; his plans for the man were simple and grave…

* * *

Isaac awoke to the feeling of his own hands stretched above him uncomfortably. He groaned and lifted his head, only to feel that something was looped around his throat. His eyes shot open in shock, as he came to the realization that someone had tied his legs together with an extension cord; after a copious amount of struggling he unscrambled the shape of a limp noose that was lying slack around his neck, and the figure of Sherlock Holmes sitting placidly in the corner of his bedroom.

'Hello,' he said, getting to his feet. Isaac grunted and struggled as the detective neared, fighting to free his wrists that were tapered together with a pair of handcuffs. 'There's no way out,' Sherlock said matter-of-factly. 'Not unless you want a broken neck.'

Isaac's heart missed a beat as he wondered how this man could have broken into his house, before noticing the shards of a broken vase and a dull pain in the back of his head.

'W-what do you w-want?' Isaac hissed. Sherlock took a fistful of his hair and wrenched his head upwards.

'Information.' He reached into his pocket with his free hand and took out what looked like a rectangular black torch. 'This is a taser,' he said, speaking softly. 'It has the ability to shoot five-thousand volts of electricity through your body. Ever been struck by one of these? Makes every fucking cell feel like it's on fire…' he moved his gaze down to the man's legs. 'This thing alone is enough to kill you; but fire a couple of shots and it can immobilize any part of your body. Give me enough information and I might not have to use it at all, but if you refuse to co-operate I'll shock your legs and your little neck will fall right into that noose. Clever eh?'

Isaac was shaking violently as Sherlock slipped the taser back into his coat pocket.

'I have n-no idea what you're t-talking about…'

He chuckled deeply.

'Please sir!'

'You know exactly what I'm talking about you little shit!' Without warning he flipped the taser out of his pocket and rammed it into the side of Isaac's hip.

The man screamed and squirmed as stinging shots thrashed through his body, groping to the back of his shoulder-blades and snaking through his every vein.

Sherlock pulled away after three seconds. Isaac sobbed viciously, struggling to keep his body aloft.

'You know why I'm here, Isaac. You're part of a pedophile ring. You were involved in the kidnapping of hundreds of young girls!' He was hissing again, keeping a firm iron grip on the mop of Isaac's hair.

'I don't…'

He flashed the taser again.

'Okay, okay! I'll talk!' Still shivering from his ordeal, Isaac watched fearfully as Sherlock slowly brought the taser to his pocket. The detective began to pace around him, like a hawk circling his prey.

'I've not known them for long… a couple of months at most.'

'You've been a busy boy then.'

'It… it wasn't my fault, I just clicked on their site and I was immediately forced to j-join them.'

'Why?'

'So I wouldn't threaten to call the police.' Sherlock nodded.

'So you had to sign up with regular updates of abused girls… and your full name.'

'Y-yes.' He stopped walking.

'Why didn't you create a fake one?'

'I was scared!' he swallowed and then said bashfully; 'and I was interested to know more about them.'

Another nod. 'So where are their headquarters? Where do you all meet up?'

Isaac whimpered, tears streaming down his face. 'I… I can't t-tell you!'

The taser was back, forced firmly into the back of his neck. He sobbed, shrieking, still flailing violently at the deep, merciless pain that whipped through his bones.

It took a good minute for him to recover from the damage to his vocal chords. He raked in deep breaths, sweating through his shirt. Sherlock watched him sardonically with his compassionless eyes, lifting the taser balefully.

'I… They'll kill me!' he croaked. 'I can't tell you!'

'Tell me which death you prefer then,' Sherlock readied the taser.

'Wait!' The detective stopped. Isaac coughed loudly for a couple of seconds.

'Well?'

'There's n-no point learning the h-headquarters!' he rasped, spluttering. 'The girls are b-being transported!'

'Where to?'

'I don't know!' Sherlock dropped the taser, seizing the neck of his shirt and ripping the seam open until his olive-brown back was exposed. There he snatched it back up and forced the metal teeth deep into his flesh.

For the third time, Isaac's muscles quaked in pain, locking and contacting uncontrollably. 'Don't play the fool, Isaac!' Sherlock spat. He shot more volts… fifteen… twenty… thirty… 'I know you've raped those girls.'

Just as the volts neared fifty, Sherlock wrenched the taser away. Isaac wasn't breathing. He wasn't moving. His body collapsed, his neck slammed into the looped rope and his limp knees hit the floor. A mixture of blood and saliva drooled from his mouth , two neat red circles gauged into his spine.

The detective backed away, gasping for breath. For awhile he stared at the man swaying on the spot, an eerie stillness in the room. Moving forwards, he unhooked the noose from Isaac's neck and let his entire body crumple to the floor. Minutes later he regained consciousness. 'Alright you piece of shit. I'll offer you protection from whoever's trying to axe you off if you tell me where the fuck those girls are.' He kicked the man so that he was lying on his back.

'It's an auction,' he whispered. 'The girls are taken to a-auction and sold to the highest bidder.'

'Where?!' He took Isaac's hair again. _'__Where?!'_

'l-lib…'

'Yes?' He forced Isaac's feeble face forwards so that his bloody lips were by his ear.

'Lib…retto.'

_'__What!?'_ But before Isaac could say another word, he'd gone slack. And Sherlock knew it wasn't a temporary state of shock.

He was dead.

Too enraged to feel remorseful or even scared to be caught, Sherlock hauled the man's body upright, pulling his head back through the noose. He untied his legs and set his wrists free of the handcuffs, letting his body rest for a couple of seconds. There he threw a jacket over the ripped shirt and quietly left the man to swing in his empty flat, racing onto the street with the word libretto fresh in his mind.


	11. Chapter 11

**A couple more trigger warnings than normal. Intense themes of pedophilia.**

Eve waited. That was all she could do. She didn't want to move; the inside of the van was frozen over, and she was terrified of her flesh accidently sticking to the icy metal.

Her knees were suspended a couple of centimeters from the bottom of the van. Her arms were tied at the wrists and strung to a hook in the ceiling. Each time the van jolted she was sure her shoulders were wrenched further and further apart.

But it was the blood. The blood was the hardest part. She couldn't see, but she could smell. Her shaking legs were drenched and she was sure that there had to be some smeared on the walls. Was it her own? That night she heard the screams of many other girls but it seemed she was the only one bleeding so hard.

Blood. Vomit. Tears. Fluid her body had lost. The only drink she'd been given was a glass of water dosed with Rohypnol, to which she'd sneakily declined.

It didn't take long for them to rig her up to a drip filled with some nauseating drug. It was thickly, sickly sweet. The whole van stunk of it.

Rough hands of her arms. Her scream hit the gag… but it was merely someone wrenching her to her feet. The blindfold was torn from her face, and a rectangle of blinding light swallowed her vision. She was forced forwards on uncertain legs, swaying and stumbling, until she tripped from the van and landed on her knees.

Forced upright. Shoved from side-to-side. Bruises, like the ones on her hips, ten purple pellets where fingers had once been.

Think now Eve. You've had your cries, you've had your pain, now it's time to think. An empty terrain. Asphalt. Someone kept pushing her until she was engulfed into a large room that was crammed tightly with other girls. The click of a lock.

They appeared to be within some kind of red canvas, like a huge tent. The sick sweet drug was back again, filling her nostrils, suffocating her. She lifted her hands to her face, watching the screeches of dark silhouetted children; it was like being in a circus. A nauseating, terrifying, black and red circus…

Think now. What's stopping you from escaping? She fought through the crowd until she was rammed up against thick rusted metal. Bars. They were in a large cell.

All of a sudden the huge material shocked into the air, revealing more blinding light. Eve crouched down and tried to shield her eyes. Many of the girls were struggling to cry or whimper behind their gags.

'100,000 is our starting price for each girl.'

A rough male voice came from Eve's left. Standing weakly, she managed to decipher what she was looking at; an audience of around fifty men all dotted around a large semi-circular room. From their seats they were craning their necks to look into the cage, like visitors to a zoo.

'Now as some of you know, we had a slight mishap on the journey here. Five of our girls have been tainted… but I'm sure that won't affect the bidding too much. Let's start with Mary.'

Someone with filthy hands began to unlock the cage. He stood amongst the children until he'd picked out the young, plump girl. He dragged her by her tethered arms out onto the stage, hastily locking the door again behind him.

Eve anxiously pushed through more girls until she was rammed against the right face of the bars.

Mary was led to the front of the stage and ordered to turn slowly.

'As you can see a little full around the edges…' the men laughed cruelly. 'But untainted. Seven years old. Looks like a purebred brit to me.'

Eve noticed the face of the man talking. It was Geoff, the man who seemed to have organized the whole thing.

Geoff took Mary's other arm and ripped off her glasses. She blinked disastrously. He then moved his hand to her shirt and calmly unbuttoned it.

Eve clenched her eyes shut, too pained to watch the humiliation that would undoubtedly befall her. As predicted, Mary was soon stripped naked and left to shiver on stage.

'Let's start the bid at 100,000. Yes? 110,000. Yes? Do I see 150, 000?' Silence. '140,000 then? Going once to the man in red… going once… going twice… sold.'

A man climbed the rotting stairs to collect the child. He balled up her clothes and threw them hard at her head.

'Now, Eve.'

Her heart sank. Eve had to hold in the vomit that was rising in her throat as someone pushed through the crowd to grab her. Despite it she tried desperately to scrunch herself up and hide, only to be brought to her feet with minimal effort.

'No need to be shy now,' Geoff muttered. Struggling wildly, every cell in her body on fire, Eve thrashed and kicked as she was forced to stand. The image of men blurred violently as her eyes stung with tears and her mouth clogged with sick; she was shaking like a deer in winter.

'Pretty little thing as you can see. Six years old, skinny, sweet London accent.' She was pushed forwards, causing her to stumble and fall. Her knees slapped the ground hard. 'This one's been tainted. Stand up!' Eve swallowed and stood.

Geoff got down from his podium once more. She could only close her eyes gently as he forced her skirt from her legs and unbuttoned her school shirt. She could only imagine the plethora of greedy eyes raking their gaze along her naked chest. Opening her eyes, she noticed just how much blood was plastered to her thighs.

He was so strong. Eve always thought _she_ was strong. Daddy had taught her how to throw a good punch. If push came to shove she could fight any boy at school. But this was a man. He was fast too. So fast, that Eve thought herself stupid for thinking she had a chance. He was fire. Once minute he was whispering to her in the dark, the next he was inside her. He leapt and spread and forced her onto her hands and knees within a second. And her hipbones still felt like they were being ripped apart slowly, like islands detaching from one another and drifting away. The one second she'd slipped free of him she'd run for the door. She knew there was no escape, she just needed the door, the chink of light beneath the door… but he wrenched her back by her hair and her hope was short-lived and it was even worse, so much worse.

Then he'd left her to bleed on the ground. Left the pain to seep into each crack in her body. She couldn't bear to think afterwards, to wonder what he'd just done to her and what it meant and why he did it… she could only let he flames of affliction tear through her, changing everything, making her wonder how long she had been lying on that ground. Seconds? Minutes? It was only when another girl screamed and she was alerted to move.

For the past three days, that little piece of him had been rutting away inside of her. It was clear, the blood on her thighs, the terrible smell of blood and drugs and death… and as she stood in front of fifty men, knowing that rape would be her life from then on, she knew she had to do something.

A man raised his hand. 'Five hundred thousand!' he called. Geoff looked towards him, shocked.

'Five hundred thousand? Going once, going twice…'

'Six hundred thousand!' another man called.

_'__Seven_ hundred thousand!' Geoff grinned deeply as if he couldn't believe his luck.

'Do I have… eight hundred thousand?' the second bidder paused and shook his head. The first bidder nodded. 'Eight hundred thousand, selling once, going twice, sold for eight hundred thousand.'

Time was slipping away.

She'd never go home now.

Never sleep in her own bed or wear her own cardigan or listen to Sherlock play the violin. She'd never ride her bike or hold John's hand or solve equations or watch frozen in her pyjamas. She'd never say hello to Mrs. Hudson or punch boys or play with Charlotte.

All fear was gone. It seemed a turning point in Eve's very soul… the moment her mind began to tick away like an intricate clock. Her eyes took in every possible exit. She fondled behind her to feel the rope on her hands, knotted one… two…three times. The man approached her, leaning down to tug her clothes back up onto her body.

Now feelings didn't matter.

Now, she had to be numb.

She had to figure out the puzzle of escape.

**Reviews would be very much appreciated. **

**I'm also having a poll to decide whether I should extend this story another couple of chapters or not... vote in the review section as to whether you'd like me to have the story keep its original ending or whether you want it extended. **

**Your views are REALLY important. Please? *puppy dog eyes***


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock glanced at his own reflection in the cabbie's mirror. He glared at those piercing blue eyes and knew that somewhere, in a parallel place, his child was being sold. Soon Eve would be gone forever, slipping through his fingers like sand. And the worst part of it was the fact that she was merely behind the mirror, reflected like the opposite side of a coin.

He sat back and rubbed his chin. It was only now, when the hate was partially cleared, that he realized what he'd just done; he'd killed a man. He'd left Isaac covered in fresh fingerprints and sloppy DNA samples. If he were to be caught, then he'd rot away in prison for a futile crime that amounted to the discovery of the word "libretto".

His phone buzzed. A text from Molly_. 'Hi Sherlock, we really need you at the morgue ASAP. Found some clues on the body of Sophie Young. Be prepared because she's a very little girl and the injuries aren't nice. Also Anderson and John are here. _

_Molly xxx'_

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought of having to confront Anderson… especially an Anderson trying to be sympathetic.

'Do you know how she died?'

John narrowed his eyes a little at the body. 'Asphyxiation...He strangled her with a belt loop.' He gestured towards the purple rungs about her throat. Molly pulled a face.

'I just don't understand how anyone could…' she shook her head as if trying to find the right term. '…and then _sleep _knowing that a body was under their bed.'

'Power,' Sherlock said. Heads turned as he waltzed into the room.

'What was that?' Lestrade asked.

'Quite simple; you remember the case of 10 Rillington Place? John Christie, serial rapist and murderer… he ended up stowing his wife's body away beneath the floorboards even though there was a perfectly efficient graveyard in his back garden. He did it simply so he could walk over those floorboards every day and know that he had ultimate power over his wife…' He turned to face Lestrade. 'Power seems to be a trademark.' He clapped his hands. 'So! What have you got for me?'

Molly brought over a glass microscope slide. 'Ca0… calcium oxide.'

'Quicklime?'

'Yeah… the type used in lime-lights.'

'Yes, _but,'_ Anderson chipped in, 'Quicklime could also be used in biodiesel and cement.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'But this is an _alkali _solution.'

'Oh.'

'We found something else too,' Molly continued. John handed her a second slide. 'There was this… weird concentration of C02 in patches of her body.'

'C02 is found everywhere. What do you mean by concentration?' Anderson asked.

'I _mean _there were burns dotted around her body. Her skin cells had been frozen.'

'Dry ice,' Sherlock muttered. He grinned, mind racing.

'Dry ice?'

'Yes! C02 that freezes skin cells and burns tissue? Ice! The only ice that actually burns without other components is _dry_ ice,' he made his way over to the microscope where the third piece of evidence was.

'This one I thought you could help me with… you see I got a bit stuck,' Molly said. 'Even Anderson couldn't help,' she gave Sherlock an exasperated look as if to say _'__Yes, even in all his infinite wisdom Anderson couldn't help.'_

Sherlock scowled at the dust on the slide; it was incredibly strange. 'Libretto.' He muttered.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

More scowling… it was small pigments of white dust that looked strangely familiar.

'I know I've seen it before,' Molly said, coming closer. 'I think I saw it… at your house…' her voice slowed as if reaching a conclusion. 'Is it ash?'

'No. I know ash.' He moved the screws to zoom into the image.

All of a sudden she gasped. 'Oh! Is it… hang on a second…' She grabbed a pen and began scribbling down. 'Isomeric diterpenoid monocarboxylic acid…'

John's face clenched in confusion.

'Oh!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'That is _brilliant!' _Without warning he took Molly's face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead. 'Brilliant!'

'What is?'

'C20H30O2!'

Everyone in the room (apart from a blushing Molly) exchanged confused glances.

'Rosin dust!'

John looked like he understood.

'Rosin, the stuff you put on the bows of violins?'

'Yes! Exactly!' His eyes sparked with something. 'Oh this is… this is _wonderful!' _ He slid his phone out of his pocket and chuckled deeply, stabbing in a number.

'Sherlock? What is it?'

Sherlock placed the phone to his ear. The sound of an infant's gargling came through the other end.

'Mr. Holmes?'

'Hello, Colin.'

Colin. He remembered how avidly the man had spoken about musical theatre. He remembered the little chinks on his fingertips where the strings of a violin had cut into his flesh; he remembered the notepad Michael had written in, leaving instructions for him to follow.

'What's the matter? Can I help you? I was just giving Bianca her breakfast… here comes the airplane…'

Sherlock listened for a second to the sound of the man mimicking a plane. 'Listen! What theatre did you used to play for?'

'What _theatre?'_

'Yes! You used to play first violin in the orchestra of a theatre! Small one I'm guessing. You kept the keys as well as playing in the pit.'

'Mr. Holmes what are you talking about?'

'The theatre! The theatre you met Michael in! The theatre he took the keys for! Where is it?!'

Silence.

_'__Colin?!'_

He sighed deeply.

'Oh God,' he muttered. 'Is it my fault?'

'Is _what_ your fault?'

'I gave him the keys… the place had shut down years ago, it was just an empty building… I didn't think…'

'Colin, what building shut down? Just tell me the address!'

'The playhouse in Holloway on Shakespeare street.' Sherlock slammed the mobile down on the table.

'Holloway!' Sherlock bellowed. 'Let's go!

Lestrade dithered for a second before moving.

'What's going on?' John muttered.

'Think about it John; limelight, rosin, dry ice… all components found in theatres! I knew Colin would be useful. He used to be in the business until the playhouse he was working at shut down. His partner Michael took the keys from him and set up a child prostitution business in the abandoned building… 'Libretto,' a term used for a musical script… it all fits!'

'So the girls are being held in a _theatre?'_

'Yes! You think Sophie picked up quicklime and rosin dust under Michael's bed? No! She was taken to auction in a theatre!' Lestrade was already shouting commands through the office.

'You think Eve is there now?' John's face was grave. 'What if she's already been sold?'

'Then her buyer can't have gotten far.' With red-hot adrenalin pumping through his veins, the detective flung John's coat over to him and raced down the stairs two at a time. Once out into the chilling air he waited for his husband, shoved him into one of the police cars and together was sent speeding down the road.

This time Sherlock felt like he was doing right… it had only been a week since he'd last seen Eve but it felt like so much longer. Each excruciating hour slugged by. Each taxing minute trickled along uneventful. And now, after all that time, he could safely say they were on the right track.

**Back again!**

**Well, I can safely say your reviews made me cry... they were so lovely and positive! Thank you so much guest reviewers! Also, I think I am going to extend the story. If you don't want it extended then there will be a chapter in a couple where you can stop reading and still have gotten a complete story, all ends tied. **

**BUT I had a couple of ideas about extending it or making a sequel. And from experience sequels didn't do too well so I thought why not work a few things around and blow this out into a much bigger thing?**

**I really have loved writing this story and would love some more feedback. Thank you!**


	13. Chapter 13

The sun was like a watery pearl in the sky. Wisps of cloud combed the horizon and the early-morning air seeped through the crack in the window.

That Christmas Eve, thirty police-cars and fifteen ambulances bolted down the A40 motorway to Holloway, ready to save the lives of fifty children based from a speck of Rosin dust and a single word.

John and Sherlock sat huddled in the back of one of the cars. This time John didn't look weak and tearful and pathetic; his head was reared forwards. His eyes were low and dangerous. His hair was matted and haggard. Behind his mask, a furious man with a murderous expression. Lestrade had allowed him a revolver, which he was clicking and stroking in his hand. Sherlock could see how much he'd welcome the ardent shiver of a gun.

Sherlock himself was hunched over and thinking hard. In spite of the cold weather he'd shed his coat and scarf and turned up the cuffs on his purple button-up shirt. Now the case was solved. The puzzle was all worked out. Now he just wanted his family out of the situation alive.

The minute the cars screeched to a halt the detective flung open the door and leapt out onto the pavement. He stood, inhaled deeply and glared forwards.

This was it now. The big finale. The closing act. John appeared by his side, gun at the ready, eyes fixed lasers.

Showtime.

* * *

Reflections were always off-putting.

Sometimes Eve would have a deep thinking debate with herself. Just as she neared the conclusion she'd catch sight of herself in the mirror and stop. All maturity would flood from her and she'd see her own round, childish face and big eyes and skinny frame.

Now she had to let all of that go.

She had to forget who she was and what was happening and just _think. _

The building was an old theatre. There would be three possible main exits, and then there was the stage door that usually led to some kind of alleyway…

James, her buyer, dragged her roughly along.

She omitted a scowl and pushed forwards, heart beating in her chest.

Their way of restraining the girls was less than sophisticated. Each man was limited to buying one girl each. When they came up to collect the children they were forced to sit on the men's laps until bidding was over. After that it was up to the men to keep a tight hold of their girls, along with the fact that the children's wrists were still tied.

Whilst waiting in the cue to pay, Eve had managed to untie one knot. Every time she moved her hands she was sure someone would see her, sure she would hear that sharp scream _'__Hey!'_

All of a sudden there was a familiar wail of police sirens.

Eve turned slowly to face the door, her eyes wide and full of hope. Soon enough those tires screeched to a halt and there was a furious banging on the front door.

Too elated for words, the girl stared forwards, eyes fixed, mouth askew in an open smile. Without thinking, she began to run.

James forced her backwards. 'No you don't!' He hissed. Geoff rose from the table of which he was accepting money.

'Run out the back way!' he ordered.

_'__Open up!' _

Eve gasped at the familiar voice. 'Daddy!' she breathed. But before she could react she was being dragged away into a stew of running people, dragged away from her one chance of escape.

'No,' she thought. _'__No!'_

'Daddy!' she said tearfully, feeling her face crumple.

'Shut _up _you little brat!' James hissed.

Snapping out of her uselessness, Eve scowled again. She would get no sympathy here. She was so close to freedom, but the risk of losing it was too great.

She realized that each time she tried to instinctively move away, James tightened his grip. When she moved closer to him, his grip would loosen.

Glass smashed behind them. The door burst open.

'Quickly!' Geoff ran them all into a huge hall with what looked like a metal garage door attached to one of the walls. From what she could remember, Eve knew it led to more terrain and a road, on which most of the kidnapper's cars were parked.

Thundering footsteps behind her.

Knowing that her fathers were in the same room as her, knowing that they were merely a couple of meters behind her gave her the courage she needed to move.

Without warning she gave one huge thrash. Not expecting it, James lost grip of the girl who bolted over to the corrugated iron door. 'Hey!' he yelled, but it was too late. Eve blocked him out. She focused only the large red button that opened the garage door.

With seconds to spare she threw herself in front of the button. Geoff grinded to a halt in front of her, bewildered at her audacity. She looked him dead on in the eyes.

_'__Move!' _He screamed, trying to slap her body to the side. She stayed firm and unmoving. His face was flustered and terrified. He seized Eve by the throat and pinned her to the wall. Startled, she released a rasped squeak, her legs squirming on the wall behind her.

A pair of arms grabbed Geoff from behind. Alarmed, the man dropped Eve and let her crumple to a heap on the floor. The pair of arms forced Geoff backwards. Lifting her head, Evie saw that it was John.

He knocked Geoff from the side and onto the ground, sitting on top of his chest. Taking a fistful of his brown hair, John began to rhythmically smack the man's head into the parquet flooring. With each smack he spat through gritted teeth 'DON'T-YOU-EVER-TOUCH-MY-DAUGHTER-AGAIN!'

Breathing heavily, Eve curled herself up small and covered her ears with her hands.

The room was alight with screaming and shouting. Daring to open her eyes, Eve saw that policemen were struggling to restrain the men, John was lost in the crowd and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

Soon the crammed hall had merged itself into a cruel current of fighting humans. Amongst the chaos it was impossible to see. Still pressing herself against the wall, Eve stood shakily.

She screamed as a pair of hands grabbed her from under the arms and lifted her body from the ground. _'__It's alright!' _

That warm, deep voice.

Too relieved for words, Eve continued to tremble. Her eyes brimmed with tears of shock. All primal instincts overtaking her, she sobbed and hugged Sherlock's back aggressively like a newborn animal clutching at his mother.

She couldn't even see him through her horribly bleary eyes. She knew she must look pathetic, sobbing and blind with confusion, gripping onto Sherlock like a rock in a stormy sea. But she just needed his warmth and security, needed to grasp at his back to make sure that he was real, he was there, protecting her. He hitched her higher and buried his face in her hair.

His soft hands were on her head, he was peppering her little face with kisses, holding her tightly as if he couldn't bear to let go.

'It's alright,' he whispered, his warm, gentle breath on her ear. She sobbed, unable to speak, instead digging her long arms even further into his back; the soft feeling of purple cotton on her skin, like the petals of a crocus; his gentle, whispering voice like a sonorous murmur of the wind; his hands with long, artist's fingers threading her hair; the smell of him, his fresh linen, peppermint smell. And she could feel his warm slab of back through his shirt, a living, breathing person…

Eve stopped. She could hear her own pulse thumping lazily in her ears. Her head was filled with something stodgy, something foggy, and to her dull attention she felt her ears clog.

'Evie?'

His voice was far away…distant. Something caused her heavy head to rear forwards and slam into her father's shoulder. She could feel a cold chill spread through her limbs, the warped sounds of shouting voices rattling in her mind like white noise.

Sherlock felt her fall limp into his arms._Dehydrated _he thought as he closed a hand over the back of her head to keep it locked firmly in place.

Despite the terrible state she was in, Sherlock couldn't deny the joy he felt as the huge wave of relief shuddered through him… How wonderful it felt to feel Eve's warmth and weight pressed against him, to feel her breath tickle his shoulder, so undoubtedly living.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw John jogging over. He flung his arms over the pair, almost knocking Sherlock over with the heavy weight of his affection.

His face was soon buried somewhere between Sherlock's arm and Eve's stomach and he stayed that way, arms stretched over to Sherlock's waist, tears dampening any void they may have had between them. Liberating one arm, the detective gripped his husband's side and held him closer.

The three stood, reunited on their own tiny island of parquet flooring… They seemed unaware of the gradually calming calamity that surrounded them. There was a steady line of policemen and women leading handcuffed men roughly from the building. Lestrade slowly approached the small family who, after a solid three minutes, were just beginning to break apart. 'How is she?' He asked.

Sherlock turned and withdrew from John. He flipped her so that he was holding her in his arms rather than against his shoulder and inspected her body. 'She erm… she needs to get to the hospital…' Sherlock sniffed, for once in his life too overwhelmed to spew deductions. His eyes were deep watery rock pools. Silvery wires of tears unfolded down his face. John gently turned Eve's floppy head with his hands. He gave her skin a light pinch.

'Severe dehydration,' he added. 'And see here,' he pointed to the seeds of needle marks that were dotted up her arms. 'They've drugged her. She'll need to be treated for withdrawal symptoms.'

'Of course. We're loading the girls into the ambulances now… go ahead, try to see if you can squeeze in somewhere.' Lestrade paused for a second. He sighed. He lifted a hand and tentatively touched the crown of Eve's head. 'Listen… I can't imagine what you two must have gone through. But I'm just so happy she's safe… that you're all back together again you know?'

'Yes…' Sherlock lifted his head and smiled earnestly. 'Thank you, Graham.'

'Greg.'

'Yes. Yes. Thank you, Greg.'

As the officer walked away, Eve began to stir in Sherlock's arms. Her eyes slid open for a millisecond before closing again. She nestled deep into the crook of Sherlock's warm arm and slept. Sherlock leaned down and kissed her head, relishing in the moment of pure bliss.

**Aaaaaaaaand Here's the cut-off point for anyone who didn't want the extended version! (:**

**Well it was SO VERY satisfying to write my little family being reunited again! :'D I enjoyed it so much!**

**Please leave a review of what you thought of this chapter (pretty please?)**


	14. Chapter 14

St. Bart's was packed.

The children's ward was a mix of recovering girls and cancer victims who'd had to stay over the holidays. Mothers and fathers had already begun to swarm the room, searching frantically for their daughters and breaking down by their bedsides.

Sherlock calmly laid Eve down into her bed, he and John pulling up an orange chair to sit and watch her sleep. Within minutes a nurse had arrived to attach a drip to her hand. 'You alright?' John asked, his voice drowned by the sobs and cries of many parents around him. Lestrade was quickly dipping in and out of conversations, filling families in on what had happened. Sherlock made a low grumbling noise that could pass as a yes. His eyes were scrutinizing Eve's grim face. While she was still unconscious, the nurse had taken a blood test to check for HIV or other STIs. Sherlock knew the anatomical side effects; vaginal tearing, ruptured hymen, possible pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases… but he didn't have a clue what to think when it came to her mental health. He nibbled his lip anxiously. She stirred.

'Where am I?' She mumbled.

Sherlock reached over a hand to stroke a strand of waxy, unwashed hair away from her face. 'In hospital. You're safe. How are you feeling?'

She paused fleetingly. 'Sick. And I'm all sore.' Sherlock swallowed, feeling suddenly nauseous himself.

'That's normal sweetheart… try to get some sleep.'

* * *

A laborious half-hour passed. Sherlock's phone buzzed with a text from Mycroft asking if Eve was seriously ill or whether he could get back to his treadmill. He rolled his eyes; he knew that if Mycroft didn't care he wouldn't have texted at all.

The sky outside bled to an inky black. A nurse came over to Eve's bed. John stood anxiously. 'Are the results back yet?'

'I'm afraid not,' she said. 'It'll take seven to ten days.'

'Can we take her home until then?' Sherlock asked.

'Well…' She fiddled with her skirt, struggling to find an answer. 'It's hard to say. She's obviously faced a lot of emotional and physical trauma—'

'Withdrawal symptoms.'

'Um… yes…'

'John is a doctor; I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle.' He gently squeezed John's shoulder.

'I understand you want her home for Christmas but I'm afraid she'll have to stay here for at least four hours until the fluids have entered her system.'

Eve drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the course of the evening. She was desperate to move, but was so weak that she couldn't even reach out her hand. Her limbs were heavy and waterlogged, and the ridiculous amount of sleep she was getting made her head feel like an aching lead ball.

Due to the sudden influx of filthy humans, the hospital had put the air conditioning on. The whole place stank of anesthetics, medicine and vomit. Chemicals filled her nose. She cracked open one claggy eye and saw one of the girls she'd been locked up next to beside her on a hospital bed. Her eyes were shuttered closed and there was a tube in her nose. Eve wanted nothing more than to hold her hand; she had developed the strangest of sisterhoods with the girls, so much so that she hated the feeling of separation.

She drifted into another sticky, lucid sleep before finally being lifted by strong arms.

* * *

The family of three were out into the cold night. The colourful beads of fairy lights swam before Eve's eyes; scarfs fluttering in the icy wind; the ribbon of silver moonlight that landed on the dark cobblestones; John's soothing voice hanging fragile and tinny in the cold air; a happy red-cheeked couple walking on the snow-streaked ground; A still, narrow, silent street hanging beneath the bright black sky, stars dotting the velvet canvas like footprints in fresh snow. Eve had summoned enough strength to clutch onto Sherlock's lapel. He was still holding her close. She buried her face in his scarf and shivered.

The scrape of a key. A warm hallway. Mrs. Hudson dashed towards them and flung her arms over the three.

Eve was on the sofa. She felt much cleaner, before realizing that her hair was damp and she was dressed in pyjamas; John and Sherlock had obviously given her a bath. A fire had warmed one side of her face. She could hear it crackling, the deep yellow ambers and oranges of home. Sherlock was playing 'God rest ye merry gentlemen' in front of the window. The rich, rustic sound of vibrato. The smell of varnish and wood smoke.

* * *

She awoke to darkness and confusion. There was a flickering and flexing coming from her stomach, before she felt vomit spewing from her throat. Her insides contracted and contorted. Her eyes stung with shock. Afterwards her nose and throat burned.

Her two fathers were beside her, patting her shoulder gently. She was in her own bedroom, with sick on the floor. She tried to shrink away, embarrassed. 'It's alright darling,' Sherlock whispered. 'The drugs are leaving your body.' All of a sudden she bent double. John was ready with a sick bowl. He held her long hair back. She shivered, suddenly freezing cold.

Throughout the course of the night, Eve was up to vomit every half-hour or so. There was nothing her parents could do for her apart from rub her back and clean the bowl. Sherlock was sat silhouetted in the corner of her room. There he stayed all night, waiting for the storm to pass.

**A quick chapter, I know but I've had major writer's block these past couple of days. Thank you so much for reading and reviews would be lovely, especially seeing as this chapter was so difficult to get down. **

**Thank you! **


	15. Chapter 15

**Hello again! **

**Just some info: This fic will now be around 35 chapters. Yay!**

**Shelby Rae, thank you SO MUCH for reviewing! I wish you'd open your PM box so I could thank you properly! Your words really made my day and you were so sweet! X)**

**Also, thank you Adg SO, SO MUCH ASWELL! I literally cried when I read your reviews!**

**Updating: I update every nine days; this one was two days early because my friend's coming over for a Harry Potter marathon x) My next update will be on the 24****th ****of April**

**And finally: This chapter has a very grim, very dark ending that may creep some readers out. I know I've warned you all before but if you're about to go to bed or if you're easily scared by this sort of thing, please skim past the last paragraph.**

**And as always: REVIEW IF YOU CAN AND IF YOU ALREADY HAVE, THANK YOU SO, SO MUCH!**

* * *

Eve slept for 24 hours straight. Her throat was rubbed raw. Her limbs were heavy. She was so paralyzed that she was certain she'd never move again.

Every so often her eyes would drift open; either one of her fathers would be sat in the armchair in the corner of her room. She was sure she'd dreamt some of it, like when Sherlock was stood in the centre of the carpet rubbing rosin onto his bow, or when John was yelling distant commands through the house… they all welded together in a hot, sticky, uncomfortable mess.

'Good morning,' Sherlock whispered. Eve peeled open one eye; she was sure it was night-time.

'Mm… is it Christmas?' She managed to mumble. For all the sleep she was getting, none of her retained energy seemed to have paid off.

'Boxing Day; you slept right through Christmas.'

Eve narrowed her eyes, confused and upset. 'But…'

'Your energy levels are low because you're not eating or drinking.' He passed her a water bottle and helped coax her into an up-sitting position. 'Try to have a sip.'

Her arm ached as she attempted to lift it to her face. Her fingers couldn't clench. Her eyes slid closed when the bottle had almost touched her lips.

Sherlock gently slid her back down into her burrow; he remembered Mycroft weaning him from drugs in his teenage years and his body having the same reactions.

Certain that she was asleep, he made his way back into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was buzzing about the table in a red silk blouse, clearing any spare turkey into a plastic container. She'd put on a mix of Michel Buble's Christmas songs for background noise to quench the intolerable silence. 'How is she?' She asked, leaning over to fix some tinsel that was hanging askew.

'Still spewing out her insides,' Sherlock said bitterly.

'Oh dear… still, you must be relieved she'd home eh?'

'Mm-hm.'

'You know there's a little bit of Christmas pudding left if you want some… I could reheat the custard?'

'No.'

'No? How about you John?'

'None for me thanks.'

'Oh… I'll put it in the freezer then, for when she wakes up.' Mrs. Hudson stooped down and opened the freezer door, only to draw back, screaming. She stood indignantly. _'__Young man, what is _hand _doing in my freezer!?'_

'…for an experiment,' Sherlock mumbled, eyes closed. His whole body was stretched out onto the sofa. He reached out an arm and fumbled on the coffee table for the neck of his violin, tugging it beneath his chin. He aimlessly plucked a slow G major scale with his eyes still shut.

* * *

Eve remembered that journey home like it was yesterday.

She remembered cycling down the pavement, meters from her front door, when a man came from out of nowhere and leapt in front of her path.

Alarmed, she slammed down hard on her brakes. The bike collided with the man, throwing Eve with a cold slap onto the pavement. The breath was knocked from her body as the man came up behind her to help her to her feet. 'I am so sorry,' she heard him say as she was lifted to the ground. In the winter light, her skin was luminously pale. She had acquired two sets of bloody, scraped knuckles from her brief skid on the tarmac.

She remembered his rough hands rubbing gravel from her skirt. Those hands suddenly latched onto her thigh. She gasped, her eyes flying to the man's face. He was grinning.

'Don't be scared now,' he whispered. 'You're a pretty one.' Eve tried desperately to thrash and pull away as he pressed his hands tighter on her chest, her backside, her legs… for a brief second his fingers slid beneath her skirt. Eve opened her mouth to scream and felt a warm, wet cloth vice over her mouth and nose.

The whole thing took less than ten seconds; the groping; the chloroform; the collapse. Eve felt her eyelids flutter closed and her legs buckle beneath her. She tried not to inhale but the drug was too strong, too intoxicating. It slid down her throat.

With her heart hammering in her chest her feet were swept from the ground and she was being carried away to a foreign white van. Fear shot through her body, spreading like fungus; to passers-by she looked like a sleeping daughter being carried home. There was nothing she could do to alert them, for them to help her… The sky was getting darker, the first streetlamps lighting the dull damp sky. All she could hear was the crunch of feet on ice and the metallic echo of a dog's bark in the distance… and the longing of a scream that filled her head.

She was screaming. Her body was arched against the bed. John and Sherlock came running in, slamming the light on. She sat bolt upright, drenched in cold sweat and heaving her breaths in and out. Adrenalin shot through her body. Sherlock's arms were around her. She clutched his waist and buried her face in his middle, shaking.

He lifted her up without a word and carried her into his bedroom where she spent the night locked in between her fathers.

* * *

The room was dark. Eve glanced at a patch on the ceiling, John and Sherlock's arms slung over her, keeping her in place. Their bed was thick and hot, their hands invasive; every time she moved their arms held her tighter, trapping her, suffocating her. She had no choice but to lie flat on her back, heart thudding, throat raw and swollen from retching. The minutes slugged by, every minute she sweated a little more, she tossed and turned a little more…. Every minute the presence of John and Sherlock reminded her of two limp dead bodies rather than her parents. Her brain was cold and paranoid, conjuring up the images of the five girls who'd died on the journey, the vomit from the overdose, the burst veins from wrists trying to escape hooks… the bleeding canvas lumps that filled the van with the stench of decay before being buried. Eve would never forget the jolt of the van that forced the corner of canvas to fly open and reveal a rotting ribcage; bodies would slide up and down the metal floor, bumping into knees and feet. Sometimes their heads would fly out and hair would wind around ankles like seaweed.

She swallowed down a lump of sick that was rising in her throat, her eyes stinging with tears. She wanted nothing more than to hold one of her fathers, to bury her face in their chest and wrap her arms around them. But they would offer her no comfort now.

She sighed and stared at the ceiling again, listening to the ticking clock and praying for morning.


	16. Chapter 16

Another day dawned. Eve opened her presents; a chemistry set and some books. She ate the leftover turkey and Christmas pudding, more to please her parents than to please herself. She could see how heartbroken they were, how sorry they were. She could see that they wanted nothing more than to make her happy. But she felt like _she _was the one who needed to make an effort and keep everyone's spirits afloat. And that in itself was exhausting.

By the end of the day she was worn out. Her over-used smile was beginning to sag and her neck ached from nodding. The turkey was a bad idea; she was sick twice more before the day was out. Sherlock put a cool hand on her head. Her skin was grey and wet and claggy, like moist clay. 'Your fever's still high,' he sighed. Eve leaned against him feebly. It was strange how distant she felt from the parents she had yearned for; when stuck in the freezing van she'd whimpered for a warm hug or a kiss goodnight… but now she had it she felt oddly empty and cold. She could hold them all she wanted, hug them fiercely and never let go, but nothing could fill the lonely hole inside her.

There was also a foreign embarrassment to the whole thing. Evie had never been reproachful to ask her parents' questions, yet her biggest questions she knew she could never ask. Instead they stewed away for hours in her aching brain, bloating in her head like some terrible tumor. She wanted to know what a little bitch was, and why he'd called her it. She wanted to know what he'd done to her, and why he'd done it. She wanted to tell them that going to the toilet hurt and that she was still bleeding a little… but Eve was far too prude. She was honestly sick of all the fussing and attention, always feeling like a burden, always feeling like she was in the way, making someone late, getting under someone's feet; she'd apologized copiously whenever the sick bucket had to be cleaned.

All energy was sucked out of her by six o clock. She had fallen asleep in front of the fire, still wearing the pink pajamas she hadn't changed out of for days.

John and Sherlock talked about her in hushed tones as falling snow streaked the window.

* * *

Eve awoke to the sound of the morning owl and the golden panes of sunlight that shone through John and Sherlock's window. She gathered herself to her feet and looked out onto the street: The snow was partially melted, tainted with silt and mud. Some had frozen over, some was still gouged out where tires had made marks in them. Two little boys dressed in black dashed into view, scarves fluttering, arms arched, throwing clumps of ice and snow at one another. Eve could hear their thin voices laughing in the quiet street, ringing tinny down the empty road.

All of a sudden something seemed to grab her. It was him, his rough, calloused hand rubbing her leg. She was lying on something hard and cold. She opened her eyes to see a thin metal ceiling jumping and jolting above her head. She sprang upwards, gasping for air, and realized that she was enclosed in a dark van. Thoughts rushed towards her; her throat burned, her eyes stung, her heart hammered in her chest, blood running ice-cold. His thin, wiry face grinned at her. He was rhythmically stroking her legs, which were sprawled out in front of her, his fingers rubbing dangerously high up her thigh. 'W-where am I?' She squeaked, shivering. Blood was racing through her body. There was something so twisted about the way he looked at her, so heartless and eerie and perverted about his very presence.

'That doesn't matter,' he said softly.

She jutted, gathering a broken breath. 'L-let me out! Please! Stop touching me!' Tears began to flow down her face, wet and sticky. He moved closer and touched her cheek, brushing some hair behind her ear.

'It's alright,' he said, although this time it wasn't soft; it was almost like her was distracted, too busy observing her. 'Look at you… little baby-doll.' Eve's breath was coming out jagged and uneven, more terrified tears falling from her cheeks… but she was frozen, shaking, allowing him to pull nearer. He fingered her face, stroking her white flesh, probing her hair with his fingers. 'You're a pretty petal, aren't you poppet?' his words were empty. He reached behind her and pulled the bobbles out of her hair, quickly unlacing her plaits. She thought about how Daddy had lovingly fixed them for her that very same morning; now he felt like a world away.

Then, without warning, his mouth was on hers, pushing hard onto her soft lips. Eve instinctively tried to pull away but he pushed her forwards, forcing their faces together. His slimy tongue entered her mouth, making her gag; he tasted foul.

Eve couldn't remember much after that. She didn't want to. She could merely recollect snippets of her ordeal, how he pushed her head into the hard floor and unbuttoned his trousers…

'Daddy,' she whispered, and then _'__Daddy!?'_ She turned sharply from the window and ran through the house. John stood waiting for her. She darted towards him and flung her arms around his waist, needing his warmth and protection. He lifted her up, confused.

'What's the matter Evie?'

'Nothing I…' She swallowed and buried her face into his shoulder. '…I had a bad thought.'

'Oh sweetheart.' He kissed her head softly. 'I understand.'

Eve spent the rest of the afternoon in her pajamas, uselessly watching and re-watching The Polar Express with John. After four hours she'd nodded off on the sofa.

'John?' Sherlock called. His voice was anxious. John switched the TV off and gently stood. Sherlock slid into the room, frowning at his phone. He grimly lifted his head to face his husband.

'What is it?'

'Court case.'

'What?'

Sherlock swallowed and slowly placed the phone on the side. He cleared his throat. 'Eve has been asked to give a witness statement in court.'

'Eve? But isn't she… isn't she too young to give a witness statement?'

Sherlock shook his head and walked towards John. 'Witnesses just need to be self-aware enough to give trustworthy information… Most of the other girls are still in hospital or were too drugged to know what was going on. Eve was right in the middle of it, she was the one who escaped from the crowd and guarded the button, she was the one who was—' He stopped dead in his tracks. The words were lodged in his throat. He tried to open his mouth.

John raised his eyebrows. 'Raped?'

'Um yes, that… anyway, she was the one at the forefront of all the violence, and one of the oldest children there.'

John nodded and lowered his head. 'But can't she just _write_ a statement? With us there?'

'No. The whole court needs to hear that they're her words and not ours. It's the law.'

He sighed and shook his head. 'She's just… so little. And if the men are going to be there it'll just hurt her even more.'

'Only one man's going to be there. Geoff, the leader of the gang. And we'll be next to her the entire time.'

'Speaking of that… the police caught everyone, didn't they?'

'No. One got away.'

'Shit,' he muttered.

'Yes I know. Lestrade's hot on his tail though.'

'What's his name?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'James, Joe, Jake, something like that. I wasn't paying attention.'

'When is it?'

He looked up with an intense gaze. 'The day after tomorrow… She'll have to talk about it the day after tomorrow.'


	17. Chapter 17

**Hey, so I know I haven't updated in a while but I've been a bit disheartened because the last chapter got no reviews ): **

**I really don't mean to sound selfish or anything and I am of course very grateful for the reviews I already have, but please PLEASE review if you can because it really makes my day and without them it's difficult to get my mojo going. Again I'd like to thank Adj and Shelby Rae for reviewing the chapter before last. I love you both so much!**

**A very long chapter as you can see, but one I'm fairly happy with… to give you any idea, I started writing this at 11 o'clock this morning and only finished at 9 o'clock… I HAVE GCSE MOCKS IN A WEEK OMFG EVANGELINE GET YOUR LIFE TOGETHER!**

**Reviews would be LOVELY! Enjoy!**

It was a cold, damp day at the Old Baily. The sky was grey and drizzling, the stone steps that led into court were smudged, wet and dotted with lichen. An erratic trickle of rainwater streamed from the drainpipe and spattered onto the floor, pigeons pecking at the flecks of water.

John, Sherlock and Eve crossed the courtyard and began to climb. Eve was wearing her best black dress and dotted headband, the hood of her thick winter coat tugged over her head. Her hand was white from clutching Sherlock's so tightly. 'It'll be alright Eve,' John said reassuringly. 'We'll be there the whole time.'

The court-room was a huge open space, tall, with varnished pews. It smelt almost like church on a Sunday, only with the fusty linger of wax. The three made their way to the front pew and wriggled across it. Eve's legs were too short to touch the ground. She swallowed thickly, latching onto Sherlock's hand and squeezing it tight. That morning there'd been a palaver trying to rouse her; she'd only just slipped out of her intensely sick mode, and needed all the rest she could get. Her sleeping pattern had gone haywire, her hair was a mess from being uncombed and her breath was horrendous from vomiting.

She looked like she might vomit there and then; her face was unbelievably pale against her ebony hair, grey and pink rings beneath her eyes that made her look like a little rabbit. John helped her shrug off her coat and asked her if she was alright for the ninth time that day.

Just then the court-room doors swung open. Eve jumped violently, grabbing John's arm… but it was just another little girl around her age. She visibly relaxed although beneath her dress her heart was hammering; soon Geoff would have to arrive.

The little girl Evie recognized as Jude. She had hair like thick straw and was wearing a baggy olive-green fleece that looked like it hadn't been washed for days. Her parents sat either side of her, both gaunt, sallow and stinking of cigarettes. Jude took her seat behind Eve leaned forwards, grinning at the girl, her eyes bulbous and brown like a barn owl. 'Hi!'

Eve tried to respond but merely came out with an unintelligible mumble. Jude seemed contented enough, swinging her legs and babbling avidly about how happy her pet dog was when she'd come home.

'And he like, jumpted on me an' like… knockded me over an' licked me face.' She flopped backwards with a sigh, smiling at the memory. 'You got any pets?'

'No.'

'You should get some! I have a unicorn as well.'

Eve laughed, but not unkindly. She was propped up on her knees, chin resting on the pew and facing the girl. 'No you don't!'

'I do too!' she yanked at her father's jacket. 'Tell her daddy tell her!' Her father shifted a little in his seat. Both he and his wife had been raking their eyes over the back of John and Sherlock's head with disdain. June's mother had the same mousey coulored hair as her daughter, but as thin and sparse as cotton; she reminded Eve of Gollum from Lord of the Rings.

Her father wasn't much better. He was skinny and frail, with sharp judgmental eyes and a sour face. He glared down at Jude. 'No,' he said, hostile. 'You don't.'

Jude dropped her head and stared at her swinging feet, embarrassed that her father hadn't humored her.

'Are you scared?' Eve asked. Jude shrugged casually, facing her again.

'No.'

_'__I'm_ scared. I don't want to see that man again.'

'Why? He can't hurt you now! Daddy said that he's going to get locked away forever and ever and that some nasty men will hurt him real bad when he's in jail.'

This time Jude's dad nodded curtly. 'He'll get what's coming to him kid.'

Nonetheless Eve spent the next half-hour jumping and squealing every time the doors opened. Eventually the Judge made his way to the podium wearing dark robes and a powdered wig. Eve and Jude's Witness Care Officer also came down the aisle, a black woman with glasses and braided hair, her voluptuous body packed tightly into a light blue suit. She perched on the edge of Eve's pew and smiled. 'Don't you worry girls,' she said promptly. 'You won't even have to look at the nasty man; we're going to have a special screen in front of that podium there and your parents will be with you the whole time. He won't be allowed to come near you and if you're too embarrassed to say something we can ask some of those people there…' she gestured towards the jury, '…to step outside for you. Is that okay?'

Eve sighed heavily, as if a huge weight had been lifted from her soul. She wouldn't even have to look at him.

'Will he get locked away?' Jude asked blithely.

'From what we've gathered we can safely say he _will_ get locked away, but I'll need you girls to be very brave and help me, okay?'

Jude nodded and grinned, obviously enjoying her adultish responsibility to the law. Eve was a little more sheepish but also nodded.

'Excellent! Now that man up there is called the judge, and he's the boss who makes sure everyone follows the rules. He's going to ask you two to come up and take an oath, which is a promise that you're going to tell the truth. It's very, _very _important that you tell the truth. Do you think you can do that for me?'

Eve wasn't so sure. The idea of giving these strangers a detailed, intimate account of her ordeal was daunting. She hadn't even told her parents about everything that had happened.

'Yes!' Jude said. Again, Eve nodded.

Suddenly the door swung open again. Eve heard the plodding of three sets of feet. She turned to see who it was and her heart dropped into her stomach like a stone.

It was him.

All the noise seemed to filter from her ears. The room was turned sideways as a chill bolted through her and her lips fell open. With his eyes trained on her, he was pushed forwards by two officers who had ahold of his handcuffed arms. As he passed she saw those dark cruel eyes boring into hers, devouring her, poisoning her, that same smug smirk on his face.

Eve sat back, shivering. Sherlock pulled his little daughter nearer. John glared as Geoff was led to the defendant's table.

The judge cleared his throat: 'This is case number 896014, in the matter of Geoff Gibbons. Present in the court room are the defendant and his attorney, the deputy prosecutor, and the probation officer…'

He rambled on a little while longer, but Eve couldn't hear anything. She could only blink wide-eyed at the man, watching his hands flex every so often in their metal bindings. Her attention was only roused when she heard shuffling behind her and saw Jude being led up the aisle by her father and Witness Care Officer.

Her body-language had drastically changed from her previous cockiness. Now she was leaning against her father and sucking her thumb, trembling a little as she was asked to stand behind the screen.

'Plaintiff and witness Jude Tiffany Abbey, if you could please clearly give your statement to the court.'

Silence.

From behind the translucent screen Eve saw Jude's father give her a little nudge.

'Go on, speak!' he hissed.

'No governing the statement!' the Judge said sharply.

Everyone in the room waited a good two minutes for Jude to begin. The judge repeated himself only with more annunciation, as if Jude was stupid. 'Plaintiff and witness _Jude Tiffany Abbey_, if you could please _clearly_ give your _statement_ to the court.' A long pause. 'That means "tell us what happened."'

'Oh!' Her cheery little voice piped up, clearly understanding. 'I get ya.' There was a low chuckle from the jury. 'Well I was playing outside on my scooter which is pink and has Moshi Monsters on it… do you play Moshi Monsters? I have a poppet because they remind me of my dog and…' The judge sighed, exasperated, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

'If you could just tell us about what happened please?' he said, cutting across her rant.

'Oh… right well this van droved up… an… there were these men in it… nasty men…'

'Was Geoff Gibbons in it?' he asked gently.

'No… but he was there though! They gave me this drink and it made me fall asleep, and _that's_ when I saw him.'

'Where? Where were you when you saw him?'

'In a little house place on the side of t'road.'

'Was anyone else there besides Geoff Gibbons?'

'Yeah! There was loads of them! They put this tape all on me mouth and tied up me hands and then told me to open my eyes and took a photograph.'

'Then what happened?'

'They took other girl's photographs and gave us another drink to make us sleepy. Then _that_ girl over there, the one with the black hair,' Eve saw Jude's head pop out from behind the screen in an almost comical manner and point her out. A ripple of heads turned towards her as she shrank away and hid her face against Sherlock's chest. '…Wouldn't drink it so he clipped her on the head and then stuck them injection thingies into her arm.'

Sherlock was sure John hadn't blinked; he was breathing heavily, eyes glaring at the back of Geoff's head like he was about to spring up and attack the man any second. Eve was still buried against her father's torso, quivering incessantly as the painful memories came flooding back.

'So these other men, how many of them were there?'

'Um… A lot. I don't know.'

The judge leaned forwards, suddenly sympathetic. 'I understand. Could you perhaps guess for me?'

'Um… a million?' Her father, who was visibly standing on the other side of the screen cringed and buried his face in his hand. 'Is that wrong?'

'No, no, you're doing marvelously Miss. Abbey. So all these other men, what were _they_ doing?'

'Some of them were taking photographs. Some of them were bringing these hooks and drills and stuff outside and then some of them were eating burgers which made me really hungry.' She turned behind the screen to face her father. 'Dad, when this is all done can we go to McDonalds?'

The judge cleared his throat. 'After you were held in this house on the side of the road, what happened?'

'We got put in a van.' Her voice was now quietly unsettled. Eve understood. She understood that the van was the worst part of it all. 'Our arms were put up above our head and on these hooks at the top. And…' she choked up. Everyone in the jury began to shift uncomfortably. '…Some of the girls I think died because there was screaming and… blood… it hit me in the face…' Jude's dad came behind the screen to rub her arm.

The judge knew that anymore teasing of the subject would end in disaster. He nodded curtly. 'You've done very well so far, but we can see you're in distress. We'll break for three minutes; court is adjourned.'

The second he slammed his gavel onto the table Jude began to sob and the room erupted with muttering. The jury discussed amongst themselves. Some of them laughed. It irked Sherlock that they were taking such a serious case so casually.

Jude's mother made her way up the aisle to comfort her crying daughter, although her affection didn't breach past saying "Come on. You're fine. You're alright."

'Heroin addict,' Sherlock muttered to himself; he'd noticed her absence of teeth and wrinkly acned skin. John didn't react, he simply stayed glaring. Sherlock turned his attention to Eve, who was latched around his middle. 'You're doing brilliantly,' he said. 'Really, really well. I'm proud of you.'

The judge retook his place and the case continued. Jude was in no fit state proceed and was sent back to her seat. 'Eve Holmes,' the judge called. Eve lifted her head, startled. A plethora of heads looked at her expectantly. 'Please approach the witness stand. You can bring one of your parents with you if you'd like.' Eve shakily gathered herself to her feet and stepped out into the aisle. Sherlock stood with her, taking one hand. The Witness Care Officer led on, braided ponytail swinging and heels clacking.

Sweat stung her back, making her little black pumps stick to the parquet floor. She made her oath and tentatively stood behind the screen.

Through it, she could see little else than some unintelligible grey blobs. But Geoff's profile was razor-sharp. She imagined him watching her as she nervously fiddled with her skirt.

'Plaintiff and witness Evelyn Ada Holmes if you could please clearly give your statement to the court.' Eve's heart was sent racing at the sound of his voice, but for a second failed to recognize her own name as she'd never been referred to as "Evelyn" her entire life. She did remember John sitting her on his lap one evening in front of the fire and telling her that her name was French and came from "Aveline" which meant "Wished for Child." He'd also told her of how he'd had to persuade Sherlock not to call her "Gertrude" after the famous female mathematician.

She noticed that the court room had gone silent and that Sherlock was looking at her as if waiting for something. She blinked back stupidly.

'Plaintiff and witness _Evelyn Ada Holmes_ if you could please clearly give your _statement _to the court. From where Miss. Abbey left off please.'

'Oh… um…' she struggled, embarrassed at his patronizing tone and at her magnified voice. 'We were… in the van…. Some of the girls died.'

'Have you any idea what killed them?'

'The hooks. They burst their radial arteries on the hooks and lost blood.'

Muttering broke out. The judge raised his eyebrows at her intelligent response. 'Very good.'

'And some of them overdosed because they'd been given too much Rohypnol. They wouldn't stop vomiting.'

'Thank you very much Miss. Holmes.' Sherlock squeezed her shoulder. 'Did anything else happen whilst you were in the van?'

Eve stopped. She fixed her gaze on the floor, holding back tears.

'Miss. Holmes?'

'Evie?' Sherlock spun her towards him and inspected her face. She wanted to ask for the jury to leave but didn't know what to say in order to alert her Witness Care Officer.

'The van stopped moving after a day. It was dark outside… A man came inside.'

'Was it Geoff Gibbons?'

Eve shook her head. She tried desperately to fit the pieces together but it was as if there was a huge black hole in her mind; after a certain point there was a mental void.

She could recollect snippets. She remembered him covering her mouth and grabbing her… but the next thing she knew he was inside her. "It won't fit. Maybe it's too big ha ha! No don't look away watch me, _watch me!"_

Her eyes stung with tears, the sound of his voice was so prominent in her mind. She didn't want to say any of it aloud. Instead she straightened up. 'A man came in and hurt me,' she said. 'He covered my mouth and put me on the floor. Then he took our clothes off.'

The judge nodded. Sherlock held her shoulder even tighter, dragging a hand over his face. It was the first time he'd heard Eve say it in her sweet little-girl voice. It didn't feel real.

'What was that man's name?'

'I… I don't know. Wait, Isaac! Isaac was his name.' All of a sudden Sherlock tensed, thinking about the dead man he had left swinging in his flat. 'He did it to some of the other girls. I could hear them… then Geoff came in and made him stop. He was angry. He made him go home.'

'Thank you.' The judge awkwardly tugged at his shirt collar. 'And what happened after that?'

'We kept on driving for another day. Then they pulled us all out and made us stand in a room… it was an auction. Geoff pulled us forwards and undressed us and showed us to the men. He grabbed my neck and tried to choke me when I ran off.'

The judge nodded again. 'I see. Thank you. Geoff Gibbon's attorney may speak now.' Eve couldn't see anything, but Sherlock could. A man of about twenty-six rose to his feet, smoothing a tie over his grey suit. He was clean-shaven with a face that had been ravaged by acne when younger.

Sherlock glared at him as if to say "Just you try. Just you try to prove her wrong." The attorney had an aura of confidence that must have been difficult to obtain, seeing as he had nothing to work with to try and project innocence onto Geoff.

'Eve,' said, grinning stupidly at the screen she couldn't see him through. 'Would you mind repeating what you said about being in the van?'

'Which bit?'

'When Isaac raped you?'

Sherlock flinched. There was no delicacy in his voice, no remorse.

Eve was lost for words. 'What… what does that mean?'

'Isaac, the man in the van,' he was speaking slowly and loudly now, as if he were explaining to her a difficult sum. A hot flush flooded to her cheeks. She was humiliated by his loud, blatant voice. 'What happened after he raped you?'

'He left me on the ground.' She squeaked.

'And then who came to help you?'

'No-one did.'

'Who came to tell Isaac to stop then?'

Eve couldn't get the words out. She shook her head, refusing to utter a single syllable in approbation towards Geoff; she could see what he was trying to do, to hail the man as some kind of hero. His attorney mistook it as ignorance.

'It was Geoff, wasn't it?'

'Objection!'

'Mr. Holmes?'

'You're giving her leading questions, you can't do that!' Sherlock said, outraged.

'Excuse me sir, are you her attorney?'

'No, I'm her _father! _And you're treating the case too heavy-handedly; she's six years old for Gods' sake!'

Muttering broke out throughout the court. The sound of the judge's gavel sliced through the noise. 'The attorney may rest… I think I've heard enough.' The man placidly slid back into his seat, folding his arms and staring straight forwards.

'The jury's statement is not needed as there has been no defense for the accused.' Sherlock picked Eve up and carried her down the pews to where John was sitting. 'Geoff Gibbons. You are hereby given a custodial sentence; you are faced with life imprisonment on charges of human trafficking under section 57 of the Sexual Offences act 2003, kidnapping under section 1 of the Child Abduction Act 1984, manslaughter under the Corporate Manslaughter and Corporate Homicide Act 2007, and child abuse under the Children Act 1984 and 2004. You will be given no chance of parole or bail. Court is adjourned.'

He slammed the gavel onto the table and stood. John Sherlock and Eve exhaled in relief. 'Well done darling,' John said, leaning over and kissing her head. 'It's all over now, eh?'

Sherlock didn't say anything. His attention was fixed on Geoff, who was being forced upwards by the two officers. As he turned, he saw just how livid the man's eyes were.

Geoff was led roughly down the aisle. This time, as he approached Eve he glared. 'I'll kill you!' he spat, suddenly jerking way from the officers and leering towards her. John's arm shot out protectively. A third officer came running, throwing his arms around him and trying to restrain. _'__I will!'_ He screamed as he was dragged through the double doors. _'__I'll kill you, you nasty little bitch!'_

The doors slammed shut behind them. The whole room was silent, but for Eve who was sobbing silently between her two fathers.

**I'm a total dunce when it comes to anything law related so this chapter could have its own reference list five pages long x)**

**Thank you so much for reading and I would love reviews!**


	18. Chapter 18

The last couple of days of the holiday were spent uselessly pacing the house. Every night Eve lay sandwiched between her parents, thinking of the man in the courtroom, his gaze so venomous it could surely penetrate any steel.

In Evie's mind, Geoff was super-human. Bars couldn't hold him. Nothing could. She'd seen the way he'd conducted himself during the kidnapping, the way he'd picked off any nits, eradicated anything that got in the way of his plan running like clockwork…

She rolled over, heart racing. Whenever the darkness twitched, she'd break out in a cold sweat and freeze, staring dead at the ceiling.

Bit by bit, Evelyn Ada Holmes fell away. Bit by bit, she was overtaken by someone much angrier, no longer the little girl she was. She cursed those huge, inviting eyes. She hated her beautiful black hair and smooth white skin and neat little eyebrows. At first, she thought the men to be monsters, but as time went by, realized they were humans. Humans just like her. Humans that laced the earth and streets of London, that ran the shop around the corner, that taught in her school… Humans that could rape little girls and dismember their bodies on the side of the road when they thought no-one was looking, slide their remains into bleeding bags and let them roll up and down van floors.

They were no longer the depraved creatures she heard about it storybooks, a million miles away. They were there, beside her, inside her, merging with her, twisting her little mind, sucking the colour from her world.

When school started she was desperate to go back and redirect her thoughts.

That morning John tied her hair limply. She glared at a patch of ground, mouth streaked downwards.

Their journey was silent. It was a cold day, rain frozen into sludgy ice, air thick and metallic. As the church bells tolled John and Eve stopped outside the school gates. John dropped down to her level. 'You'll be alright won't you sweetheart?'

She nodded, saying nothing.

'I can pick you up if there's any problem… I've explained the situation to your head teacher and he'd understand if you ever needed to leave the classroom for a minute to take a breather.' Eve stared straight past, eyes stinging. All of a sudden she heard her name ringing loudly through the playground.

_'__Eve! Eve over here!' _She turned to see Charlotte racing towards her, schoolbag swinging, cheeks red, orange hair flying in a streamer behind her round face. In her hast she tripped and skidded on the ice, landing with a thump on her bottom.

A mother standing beside John snorted with laughter. He shot her a scowl.

The girl picked herself up, unswayed, and continued charging towards Eve. The impact of their collision almost sent Eve flying. Charlotte enveloped her in a suffocating embrace. 'Eve I was so _worried!_ Mummy said something bad had happened… on the news… she wouldn't tell me what!' Charlotte drew away, concerned. Eve remained unresponsive yet smiled at Charlotte's exuberant anxiety. 'I never got to give you your present! Here, I've got it with me!' She reached behind her and struggled to unzip her bag. After some rummaging she emerged with a thin parcel wrapped in assorted scraps of giftwrap. An aimless zig-zag of ribbon was tied haphazardly around it. Eve took it carefully between her gloved hands. 'Sorry about that ribbon bit; my little brother wanted to help.'

'Thank you very much,' Eve said. She was surprising very glad of Charlotte's over-friendliness; it seemed a necessity that she'd surround herself with people who were much happier than her to inject some enthusiasm back into her life.

The two walked away, Charlotte still babbling down the length of the playground. The mother standing beside John folded her arms over her chest.

This woman John noticed as Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was somewhat infamous as the gossip amongst mothers. Her skin was pulled so taunt from Botox that she strained to kiss her daughter goodbye. Her eyes were so fluorescently brown that they appeared red, and bulged from her tight skeletal face to give her a constantly surprised expression. Her hair was bleach-blonde and dark at the roots, piled onto her head in a scruffy top knot. She blinked at Charlotte's retreating back.

'Rough girl, that,' she said.

'Pardon?'

'I said she's rough that girl… I think her Mum's on benefits and can't afford some decent clothes; and look at the _size _of her! She's like an elephant galumphing along that playground!' She chortled to herself. John blinked at her witheringly. 'I feel sorry for girls like that. You know my daughter Darcy had a birthday party a couple of weeks ago, she came and asked me what a kiwi was! I mean can you _believe_ it! That girl needs some clean clothes and a _serious _change of diet if you ask me!'

John remained silent, staring out into the distance like he hadn't heard. From the corner of his eye he saw Elizabeth dither from foot to foot.

'So why _was_ little Evie off school that last week?'

He turned and frowned. The urge to tell the woman to fuck off was overwhelming. 'Personal stuff,' he muttered, hostile.

Elizabeth nodded, hand on her ropey chest. 'Was there any… _conventional _reason for her to have left?'

'Yes,' he said through gritted teeth. 'There was.' A text came through on his phone. He wrenched it out of his coat pocket. The message on the screen left a frown on his face. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'Need to get home.' He turned rudely and left the woman staring at him with her red-brown eyes.

* * *

The body of a 21 year old Arabic man was laid out on a slab in Molly's morgue. 'You know him?' John asked.

'Isaac Karim. He was one of our prime suspects,' Lestrade said. 'We were all set to interview him but then everything kind of…' He mimed an indistinct explosion with his hands. 'His old landlady found him hanging by the throat in his flat.'

John slipped on a pair of gloves and tilted Issac's head skywards to get a closer view of his neck. He frowned. 'The rope slipped a couple of times,' he said, pointing to the scuppered purple marks. His brows furrowed further. 'And… wait… from the angle of this mark, he can't have done that himself.'

'We did suspect it was assisted in some way. His knees were dangling just above the floor.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, you'd think it would be easier to hang from the ceiling.'

John moved further down the body to his wrists and noticed faint indentations. 'His wrists were tied together…' Glancing upwards he saw the fringed edge of ripped fabric. 'Help me turn him over will you?' Lestrade took one shoulder, John the other, and gently turned him onto his stomach. A neat triangle of skin shone through his ripped shirt.

'What's this?' Lestrade asked, gesturing to two red holes. 'They look like animal bites.'

'Taser marks. And look, his hair's all clumped at the back.' John fingered the greasy black curls. 'Blood. Someone smacked him over the head with something.'

Just then, a very flustered Sherlock came crashing through the double doors, face red, one arm in his coat. He staggered over to the table, causing the ring of people to scatter.

'Um… What have you got?' he panted, manically running his eyes up and down the body.

'Yes, hello Sherlock,' Lestrade said, irritated.

'Isaac Karim, 21 hit over head, tied up tasered and hung.'

'Good, good. Any suspects?'

'No… none.'

'We reckon he was linked to the case of the kidnapped girls,' Lestrade piped up.

'Of course. Brilliant. Excellent. Erm… we should check his flat!'

'Sorry?'

'Yes! Get Anderson, we need to prove a connection to the girls. It'll broaden up our horizon a bit, give us some... suspects.' Sherlock understood about 20% of what he'd just said. His heart hammered so loudly in his ribcage that he was sure everyone else in the room could hear. As they began to file out of the room John gently touched his arm. He almost jumped out of his skin.

'Sherlock are you alright? What's the matter?'

'What? Me? Fine! How was your school I… I mean… how…how was Eve at school?'

John narrowed his eyes a little. '…Fine.'

'Great.' With that he nervously edged past his husband and followed the string of people leaving the building.

John stared after him.

Something was terribly wrong.

**Sorry I'm a little late updating but it's exam season and I've just started my GCSE mocks.**

**PLEASE review as it would really cheer up a pretty stressful week!**

**THANK YOU!**


	19. Chapter 19

'You were right Sherlock,' Lestrade said. 'This place is crawling.'

The team at Scotland Yard were busy rifling through Isaac's filthy flat. It was clear that the man was utterly depraved; nearly everything they touched passed as evidence.

His landlady stood at the door, a very short, plump, old woman with platform heels and a flowery tunic that brushed the ground. She folded her arms. 'He were a right funny buggar an' all,' she said. 'But I _never_ would have guessed.'

'When did you find him?' John asked her.

'Yesterday. I came to collect the rent and could smell it through the door… saw him hanging there like a limp rag-doll.'

Sherlock was still flitting over evidence: A teddy bear used for masturbation; a long lens camera; a small dismembered doll… but none of it seemed to be going in. He was still on red-alert, terrified Lestrade would notice that he was acting out of the ordinary.

John had taken to checking through old police records. He stopped abruptly, looking up. 'Sherlock?' The detective spun around forcefully, in his hast knocking over a snowglobe and a bottle of deodorant from the window ledge. Anderson looked, pained, as potential evidence was ravaged.

'Y-yes?' Sherlock said, clumsily cramming the items back into place.

John neared, frowning. 'What is the _matter_ with you today?'

'Nothing… what have you found?'

He held the gaze suspiciously for a couple of seconds more before facing downwards. 'He's been convicted twice, look.' Sherlock glanced over his shoulder.

'Driving an ice-cream truck without a warrant and making leery comments towards children,' he read.

'There's more. His neighbor pressed charges for spying on his daughter.'

'How old was his daughter?'

'It doesn't say.'

'Seven,' the landlady piped up. 'Little Kirsty. She lives over the way.'

John and Sherlock exchanged looks of resigned misery. 'We'd better check his phone,' Sherlock said. John nodded.

'Right… Sherlock?'

'Yes?'

He paused, as if physically struggling to get the words out. 'Do you think he was the man Eve was talking about? The same Isaac?'

Sherlock realized he'd completely forgotten that Eve had said Isaac's name aloud in court. He acted oblivious. 'Maybe.'

* * *

After an hour of searching the group had unearthed much suspicious evidence. On his phone was a picture of the neighbor's daughter sitting on her father's knee, the top of her shorts unbuttoned. There was a smattering of relatively soft-core material; some artistically shot black and white photographs of naked children from the early thirties, and a painting of 'Child at Bath' from 1886. Soon, in a locked folder that Anderson had to hack, they found things of a much more provocative manner.

A schoolgirl of about thirteen was laid on a bed, legs spread, and hair in a seductive caramel-coloured swirl around her head. 'He's taken this himself,' Sherlock announced. He turned to the landlady and, in favor of the girl's decency, showed her the face only. 'You recognize her?'

She squinted at the picture and shook her head. 'No. He did always have kids coming over though. Used to work at the swimming baths, teaching the children. They loved him.'

'Does he not work there anymore?'

'No; he got fired… never told me why… still managed to pay rent somehow.'

Sherlock thought for a second, biting his bottom lip. 'How long has he been unemployed?'

'Since October.'

After some quick flicking, they found a sudden incursion of child pornography from October onwards.

'So he got paid to take pictures?' John concluded.

'Yes.' Sherlock said bitterly. 'It wasn't just an indulgence; it was a profession.'

'Good lord.'

They landed on a picture of the van's interior, the girls crammed together like sardines. It focused an obviously violated young girl whose face was drawn in pain and despair… but huddled in the corner was Eve, blood puddled beneath her, skin chalk-white, lethargically drooped against the metal wall with tears flowing from her glazed eyes.

An icy pang seemed to blast him in the chest, sending his heart racing. He didn't linger, swiping past it immediately and hoping John hadn't seen, but knew that he had. John began to breathe heavily, scowling and clenching his fists as if he were primed to attack the phone for simply exhibiting his daughter.

'Bastard!' He spat. He shook his head and scowled at the floor, Sherlock still awkwardly lingering beside him. 'Whoever killed him was a lucky man!'

'I think we've seen enough,' Lestrade said anxiously, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. Anderson had to stop his avid photographing of the crime scene, like an over-excited child sulkily putting a toy back on the shelf. 'Let's bag up the evidence and get it back to Molly.'

Donovan, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, approached Sherlock with folded arms. From her body language he guessed that she was feeling guilty about something, lowering her head and staring at her feet. 'Who do you suspect it was?' She asked.

Sherlock ignored her for a couple of seconds, slipping Isaac's phone into a small plastic bag. His delayed response made her visibly suspicious. 'Um… I suspect it's someone within the ring,' he sealed the bag, not looking her in the eye.

'Really?' she sounded unconvinced.

'Yes; a tight-knit group like that, no-one would be alone. You remember Michael?'

'Yeah.'

'He was being followed by a sniper. I suspect everyone in the ring had their own guardian angel watching over them, making sure they behave.' He hoped she'd leave then but she remained firm.

'So… a trained gunman was following Isaac around, making sure he didn't blab…'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated. 'Yes?'

'So why didn't he just pick him off with a bullet? Why leave all this mess behind?'

'I…I don't know.'

'Donovan!' Lestrade called from the doorway. 'Stop pestering him and pack up, we're leaving!' Sally blushed violently, throwing Sherlock a dubious glance before shambling out of the room.

* * *

The night's sky was dark and oily, fickle watery snow shimmering onto the pavement outside St. Bart's.

Molly was bent over Karim's corpse, sleek ponytail hanging dangerously close to his chest. Sherlock noticed the homemade embellishments she'd strung about the lab: a very small fiber optic Christmas tree that made a soothing humming noise, and a less nonchalant figure of Father Christmas who blurted obnoxious carols whenever Sherlock accidently nudged it with his elbow.

It was as he watched it thrash manically like a drunken weeble that he realized he'd been doing nothing for over an hour. 'I can finish up here if you like,' he offered. Molly lifted her head, grinning politely.

'Oh no, it's fine thank you Sherlock.' She ducked down again, whistling in freakishly accurate time with the singing figure, as if it had possessed her.

A second of silence passed. 'Are you _sure_ you don't want to leave now?'

She resurfaced. 'No, I really don't mind—'

'It's just that the cats will be missing you.'

She glanced at him, feigning confusion. 'I only have _one_ cat.'

'Is that why you have three different hairs of three different breeds on that tasteful jumper of yours?' he gestured to her front.

'Well… Um… She just had kittens so-'

'You know I wouldn't trust them with that neighbor. She doesn't understand the dietary requirements of—'

'Oh Sherlock,' she said sympathetically.

He frowned for a split second, confused. 'What?'

'I know,' she started. 'I know it must be very difficult for you… And I understand that this case feels very _personal_… but I think the best thing you can do now is to go home.'

'Pardon?'

'It's nearly nine… Eve will want her Dad.'

He swallowed, feeling suddenly guilty. Yet again, he'd forgotten all about his daughter. 'Well…' He fiddled with the fiber optic branches, thinking of some bullshit that might persuade her to leave. '…You're right,' he said eventually. 'It _is_ a very personal case. I don't really expect you to understand… but after all the business with Evie it's difficult to go home… I'd rather just stay and work, just to put my mind off it all.' Molly nodded sympathetically.

'I know what it's like to want to get away from it,' she said. 'Alright then; you hang for a little while and I'll be off.'

'Thank you,' he said sincerely as she left, laden with bags.

The minute the door slammed behind her the smile slipped from his face and his plan was put into action.

Sherlock snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, and bent close over the body. There was no way his fingerprints could be retrieved from the oily surface of his skin… but Karmin's clothes would be easier. Molly had already stripped the man of his shirt, which was neatly sealed in a plastic bag. He unzipped the bag, wrenching it out by the collar and holding it to the light. It would need a session with iodine in a fuming chamber in order to make the prints visible to the naked eye, but after hours would be impossible. Instead he retrieved a bottle of carbolic acid and began dabbing, erasing his steps, showing no sign that he was ever there.

Every so often the thrashing Father Christmas would resume its hellish chorusing from across the room, but after awhile Sherlock stopped jumping out of his skin whenever it repeated "Ding Dong Merrily on High."

The intricate work took over two hours. When it was done he carefully refolded the shirt, knowing that any future tests for fingerprints would show up blank. In spite of his cautiousness, Sherlock had to do one more thing to put his mind at ease.

He'd done well. He knew no-one would find out. But he still found himself reaching under Molly's desk and pulling out the Bunsen burner, attaching it onto a gas pipe and igniting it with a flame.

With his head angled away so he didn't have to look, he snapped off his plastic gloves, took a deep breath, and stuck two fingers straight into the fire.

His face was twisted in pain, free hand white from being clenched. Every so often his fingers twitched, desperate to jolt away, but he remained firm. At last he withdrew his hand, feeling suddenly dizzy. As he stuck the second one into the flames he inspected the first; the fingertips were burnt red but passably shiny and smooth, the intricate spirals of his fingerprint peeled back to a blunt edge.

When his second episode of torture had lasted long enough he pulled away, sighing with relief. He wiped a rim of sweat from the top of his head and packed Molly's Bunsen away with shaking hands.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he switched off the lights, put on his coat, and left down the darkened corridor.

* * *

**Hello again! I just want to thank ValkyrieDefender and Adg for reviewing because it really did make my week. THANK YOU! XXX**

**I am feeling a little bummed out though because with each chapter this story is getting less and less views which is a shame. I am of course very thankful for the regulars (I feel like I own a pub) who always review and have been here since the start but if you're new and you haven't reviewed yet than PLEASE DO! :)  
Also want to wish everyone good luck with their exams… I've endured seven mocks this week and feel so stressed that it makes me wonder how I'll cope in my real GCSEs.**

***whispers* please review. Please...**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20 holy cheese-balls! Thank you so much for reading and giving me the motivation for writing this story as it's come further than I ever thought it would. It's really weird thinking that this fic is almost half a year old yet people are still reading and reviewing more than ever.**

**Thank you!**

'You were back late last night, Sherlock,' John called from his seat. They were both in the living room, Sherlock slowly churning his tea around with a spoon. It seemed a physical symbol of his guilt; he was hunched over it, watching the murky brown water spin as various thoughts of Eve and Isaac and Molly flitted through his mind. He addressed John with an unintelligible grunt. 'Molly said you insisted on staying... bit strange isn't it?'

Sherlock sighed. The fire in the corner crackled gently. John was burning hickory wood, which filled the room with the soft aroma of baking ham. 'Yes. It is strange.' Finished stirring, the detective lowered himself into the seat opposite John. The man's face was surprisingly bitter, a vain twitching like a worm on his head and his jaw moving as if he were literally chewing unspoken words.

'Eve was upset that you weren't there to tuck her in.'

'Mm.'

'She's still hurting, Sherlock.' Sensing a change in tone, Sherlock lifted his head. The room seemed to freeze, eerily silent but for the crackling fire.

He glanced back down into the abyss of his mug, as if purposefully disregarding John. When his head was bent and his face was hidden he felt his eyes brim with unexpected tears. 'I know,' he muttered weakly, only so quietly that it could be mistaken for a cough.

John leant on his fist, face clenched in concentration. It was the face he made when he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Sherlock guessed it was something along the lines of what to do next, although there seemed no clear answer. Living with Eve had been a long, cruel slog the past couple of weeks. Her parents couldn't give her what she wanted, and she didn't know what she wanted. Closure seemed too condescending and awkward. Asking her about it evoked unwanted memories. Leaving her alone forced her to bottle it up. Pretending it never happened was too blithely unfair.

The whole thing was like wading through treacle; there was no huge chart Sherlock could construct, no puzzle he could unravel, no guidance to tell him what to do… Everything he considered had a long list of cons and a million things that could go wrong.

They could only sit still, frozen in time, listening to the crackling of the fire.

* * *

Eve sat cross-legged on the floor of the playground, sun burning the back of her neck. Charlotte had tried to engage her in a conversation, but soon saw that Evie was in no place to chat. 'Are you having a funny turn?' she asked, dropping from the climbing frame and onto the floor. She crawled over to Eve on her hands and knees. 'My mummy has them sometimes. Do you want to be left alone to have a headache?' Eve nodded slowly.

Lottie seemed contented enough, haring off down the playground alone to chase a bird and talk to a tree that looked like it had a face on it.

Eve couldn't talk. She couldn't do anything. Her mind was racing, pulsing, flitting through memories like reams of computer code.

There were harsh voices and cruel cold, Christmas in a van, dislocated shoulder-blades and gushing blood, screaming and drugs and smacks and glares of photographs and gags and tears and vomit and rope.

She never forgot the angled view of his body entering the van. Every time it was different; sometime she remembered him creeping towards her slowly and slyly, with a voice like smooth velvet, others she saw him clattering over and ripping off his clothes.

A coolness spread over the back of her neck. It took her a good couple of seconds before she realized it was Darcy's shadow, who was standing behind her. 'What?' she said rudely, turning towards her.

'Why was you off sick?'

'I wasn't sick,' Eve muttered, plucking some grass from the ground.

'A-ha! My mummy _said_ you were faking it… I'm going to _tell.'_

'Go ahead, no-one will believe you anyway.' Lottie came running gallantly from the other end of the playground.

'Hello Darcy!' She said brightly, grinding to a halt in front of her. 'Eve doesn't want to talk right now because she has a headache… but you can talk to me instead!'

'I don't want to talk to you fatty.'

It took a minute or two for Charlotte to process the insult. 'Hey,' she said, hurt. 'You're mean.'

'No I'm not, I just don't want to talk to you. Eve, why were you off? Were you skiving?'

'It's none of your beeswax.'

'She has a headache,' Charlotte said sympathetically, trying to touch Darcy's arm. She jerked away.

'Ha! Yeah! I was right! My mum said you were from a really trashy family anyway, because little girls can't have two daddies. She said it was disgusting.'

This time Eve stopped. She turned, face as hard as steel. 'What did you say?'

'I said my mummy said little girls can't have two daddies,' Darcy said smugly. 'You know your daddy Sherlock? My mummy said he does illegal stuff and smokes bad things that you aren't meant to smoke.'

Eve rose, straightening up to her full height. 'Well _my_ daddy said your mummy kissed the head teacher and that your mummy and daddy are having an affair.'

Darcy's face flushed a violent pink. 'That's a lie!'

'No it's not; my daddy's the smartest man in the whole wide world… your mummy's an idiot!'

Livid, Darcy stepped forwards and gave Eve a shove. 'My mummy's much nicer than your daddies!' she said defensively. Eve scowled, turned, and decided to brush the shove off. 'And you're all liars as well! You know I bet you just sat down and watched the telly those last couple of days!'

All of a sudden, Eve couldn't bear it. She sprang at Darcy, knocking her onto the floor. There she flipped her over, blinded with rage, and began clawing at her face, tearing her silky blonde hair from her head.

'Evie! Don't you'll get into trouble!' Lottie called from the sidelines, only to be elbowed out of the way by a year six lad.

A ring of spectators gathered to watch them. Darcy wasn't much cop at fighting and began to cry and scream. Something within Eve seemed to flicker; enjoyment. All senses had been lost to a numb anger. Eve saw no boundaries. She couldn't stop. She just kept ripping and scratching and biting and punching, adrenalin shooting through her arms and making them slam down again and again like impulsive hammers.

It felt so good to have her pain equaled. Now she was sharing it out. Now others understood what happened to her in that little white van with blood on the walls…

All of a sudden her eyes began to sting with tears; she realized she had no idea what she was doing, she only needed to vent her frustration. One punch for a daddy who didn't listen; a scratch for being knocked off her bike; a furious kick for being stripped in the theatre; and something bigger for what Isaac did.

She flipped Darcy over and began clawing at her skirt, wrenching it down. _'__Don't!'_ Darcy cried, trying desperately to pull her skirt back over her legs. Eve kept pulling, ripping, heart racing, brain twisted, soul bleached black. Darcy's matchstick legs were exposed to the light. Evie took a fistful of her hair, watching her distraught face, mouth a letterbox square and tears running down her face.

_'__Stop crying!'_ Eve bellowed. _'__How am I supposed to enjoy it if you keep crying!? You little bitch! Hold still!'_

Hate spewed from her mouth. Veins throbbed in her arms… at that moment Eve had disappeared completely; something possessive, something hollow, something dumbly enraged took her place as her taunt fists slammed Darcy's face into the floor again and again.

A dinner-lady split through the ring of children and yanked Eve backwards by her shirt collar. She fell with a smack onto her bottom, arms grappling out in front of her and throat gargling from the tight collar. She sounded like some unearthly beast, nails slashing through the air. The dinner-lady hauled her to her feet and whipped her around. 'What on_earth_ do you think you're doing!? That's no way for a young lady to behave!' she bellowed, spraying Eve's face with spit. Eve didn't move. She didn't twitch; she stayed breathing heavily as if the weight of the world was crushing her lungs.

Dragging her by the knitted sleeve of her jumper, the dinner-lady subjected her to the Naughty Wall, forcing her to stand on the horizontal yellow line that was painted beneath the leaky overhead guttering. In the distance she could see the back of Darcy's silky silver hair bobbing as she told and retold the story of her savage, unprovoked torture. The girls of the playground clucked around her like mother hens, scowling at Eve every now and then. The remaining spectators came to stand in a patronizing circle around her, as if she were an attraction at a medieval freak show. Their presence reminded her of being back on the stage, ready to be auctioned. Some goggled at her audacity, some scowled at her cruelty, some cowered at her scariness, and the occasional year six nodded in respect. One boy, the only boy in the school to wear aftershave and have a hint of feathery stubble even muttered 'Good fight,' as he passed. Lottie was tentative at first but still stood behind the dinner-lady, waiting for Eve to be released from her torment.

At long last, the dinner-lady picked the whistle up from her barrel chest and blew. Children dropped their skipping ropes and stepped out of their chalk hop-scotches grids, slowly making their way back into the school. Eve began to peel herself away from the wall, head bent, only to have the dinner-lady slam a meaty hand onto her shoulder. 'No you don't,' she said. 'You're off to see the head teacher Little Missy.' Eve shrank away from the dinner-lady's blotchy red face. Most of her crude crimson hair was furled beneath her navy-blue hat, although her eyelids were still smeared with electric blue and her lashes were so heavily mascaraed that they looked like flies' legs. She turned her attention to Lottie. 'You too.' She grabbed the girls' wrists and began dragging them through the corridors to the head teacher's office. Throughout it Eve's head lolled and her limbs dragged like a limp ragdoll.

**Constructive criticism would be much obliged (but if you think of something nice, say that too!) thank you all for reading and have a really lovely week :D**


	21. Chapter 21

The headmaster was a thin, wiry man with ropey arms and flyaway grey hair. His blue eyes forced an invasive, penetrative gaze on Eve and Charlotte, who were sat opposite him on two chairs. Charlotte hummed tunelessly, swinging her legs in unison with the ticking clock. Eve's head was down, a web of black hair curtaining her face.

The door clicked open. Eve jumped violently, breaking out into a sudden sweat… but it was just Darcy and her mother. Elizabeth looked livid; her tiny, tadpole-shaped eyebrows were drawn in a scowl, her mouth was subjected to one straight white line and her fluorescent eyes looked ready to pop out of her skull. Darcy scuttled to the desk and pulled up a chair. Eve thought she'd be thrilled to dish the dirt, but instead looked like strangely meek and sincere. 'Sit up straight Darcy!' Elizabeth snapped. The little girl immediately sprung into an upright position. She turned sharply to Eve, gaze boring into her back. 'And _what_ do you have to say for yourself young lady?'

The headmaster raised his hand to silence her. 'I'll be asking the questions Miss. Langley. Would you like to take a seat?' She sniffed furiously yet did as commanded, slipping in next to Charlotte. Strangely, Eve noticed that Charlotte didn't smile at Elizabeth. She didn't even grace her with a polite nod of the head. Lottie merely gazed forwards at the ticking clock, refusing to acknowledge the woman sat beside her.

Elizabeth sighed melodramatically. The headmaster turned to her, stitching a smile onto his face. 'Is there a problem, Miss. Langley?'

'Yes; are we going to sort this out or not?'

'I'm afraid we'll have to wait for Eve's parents to arrive.' She rolled her tightly socketed eyes and muttered something unintelligible under her breath. Darcy went chalk white and then bright pink from embarrassment after deciphering the words.

Eve continued to stare into her lap, eyes stinging with tears. It was all so _unfair; _why did every adult she met have to patronize her? Why was she always treated like a lesser being because of her age?

After six eternities, footsteps came rumbling down the corridor. Once again the door clicked open and the two men entered the room, John casting a confused glance at Eve, Sherlock running his routine analysis over everything, eyes flickering. The headmaster rose to his feet, smoothing his tie over his sleek navy suit. 'You must be Eve's parents. Please, take a seat.'

'What's wrong?' John mouthed, trying to catch his daughter's eye. Eve said nothing. From her sheet of dark hair she saw Charlotte's pudgy face light up in a smile.

' 'Ello Eve's dad!' She said.

'Hello Charlotte.'

'Mr and… Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid there was an incident this afternoon concerning Eve and another little girl—'

'Eve punched the other girl in the face,' Sherlock said, cutting across him.

'I'm… sorry?'

'Was I right? I was right wasn't I; Eve punched the other girl in the face and pulled her hair…' he leaned backwards and frowned. '…and ripped her skirt judging by the state of her hem.'

'Well um… I was hoping I could tell you in a slightly more—'

'So you pulled me out of work for something that could have been concluded over the phone. How very professional.' John gave Sherlock an obvious kick under the table.

'Shut _up!' _he hissed.

'Yes, anyway, I'm sorry to pull you out of work but physical assault is simply not tolerated in our school. I thought this would be a matter better dealt with face-to-face—'

'Your girl beat up my Darcy!' Elizabeth exploded, pointing an accusing pink finger at Eve.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. 'I'm sure it wasn't unprovoked,' he muttered.

'So you admit it! So you admit she did it! What kind of a father _are_ you?!'

'Excuse me Miss. Langley, but I'd like the girls to speak first… wouldn't want to lead them astray. Eve, would you mind telling us exactly what happened?'

Eve squeezed her eyes shut, humiliated. She was back in the court-room, hearing the Judge's stinging words. But this seemed scarier than any prison sentence. She couldn't seem to get the words out. Defeated, she shook her head softly.

'Well come on then, spit it out!' Elizabeth barked. She turned back towards the headmaster. 'Make her speak! I wanna hear her apologize!'

Eve's vision began to blur. Although she tried to hide it, tears fell from her face, landing on her lap. John put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

'There's no need to get upset now Eve,' the headmaster said awkwardly, skirting his desk and passing her a box of tissues. She took one and wiped her face. 'Perhaps we should move onto Charlotte. Charlotte, would you mind telling us exactly what happened as truthfully as you can?'

She nodded and sat up straight. 'Well Evie was having a funny turn so I went to play by myself, and when I looked over I saw Darcy standing over Eve and saying things to her.'

'Did you hear what she said?'

'I dunno… but she called me a fatty, and asked why Eve was skiving. Then _she_ said that her _Mum_ said that she was from a trashy family.'

'I see. So you're sure it was _Darcy_ who started it?'

Before Charlotte could nod, Elizabeth leaned over. Her double-ridged breast implants bulged alarmingly from her shirt as she attempted a sweet smile. 'Charlotte love, are you _sure_ Darcy started it? You know sometimes things can get a little mixed up in your head and you think something happened that really didn't… I know for certain that a lovely little girl like yourself would hate to _lie_ and get Darcy into trouble.'

Lottie may have had all the common sense of a spatula and the intuition of a spoon, but didn't for a second fall prey to Miss. Langley's honeyed words. She frowned and shook her head. 'No. Darcy definitely started it sir.'

'Thank you Charlotte. What about the fighting? Who began to fight first?'

'Oh, well that was Eve,' she whipped around to face her friend. 'Sorry Eve. But yeah after they said some stuff, Darcy pushed Eve and then Eve proper pushed her over and started pulling on her hair… I _told_ her she'd get into trouble but she didn't stop. She must have been _really_ angry.'

'Thank you Charlotte. You are excused.' She sat for another second, blinking ditzily. 'That means you can go.'

'Oh!' she hopped off her chair and muttered goodbye to Eve before leaving.

An eerie hush settled over the room. Evie suddenly prayed for Lottie's humming to break the silence.

'Darcy,' the headmaster said at last. 'Do you agree with Charlotte's statement?'

Darcy gave a slow nod. 'Did Eve do and say some bad things?' Another nod. 'Did _you_ do and say some bad things?' And another. 'I really am very disappointed,' he said. 'You had no reason to start brawling, either of you! Darcy, you shouldn't have started provoking Eve and Eve, you should have told a member of staff, you should _not _have started a fist fight in my playground!' He jerked his head towards the parents. 'I hope that you will continue the punishments at home. You are dismissed, thank you for your time.'

'Is that _it?!' _Elizabeth sprung up from her seat. 'Darcy told me a _very_ different story! She said that Eve tried to pull her skirt down! I'm sorry but I don't want this little maniac hanging about my _child!'_

'Miss. Langley sit _down!'_

'I will _not!_ That could be classed as sexual assault!'

'Don't you _dare _talk about that with Eve in the room!' Sherlock thundered, also standing. 'My daughter's been through _hell _these past couple of weeks and she doesn't need you coming in her and stirring her up! I will deal with her when we get home, until then I suppose you close that busy mouth of yours!'

'Excuse me? I was called in from work and I expect it to have been worth my while!'

'Work?' He laughed callously. 'The only work _you've_ been doing is with your hips! Newly reapplied lipstick, slightly smudged underneath your powder… white shorts that are _much_ too small for you and not matching the weather. You obviously just threw them on after tearing your face away from the postman!'

'How _dare_ you!' Elizabeth yelled, face impossibly red. From Eve's angle she saw the woman's eyes glitter. Her voice broke. 'How _dare_ you tell such filthy lies! Come on Darcy, we're leaving!'

She yanked the girl to her feet and marched her down the corridor, tugging self-consciously at her ill-fitting shorts on the way.

Once again, silence flooded the room. Sherlock stayed scowling, breathing heavily. 'I'm so sorry,' John said. The headmaster nodded curtly.

* * *

Night-times were still difficult to plan; Eve didn't sleep in her own bed but in John and Sherlock's and when she did, couldn't drift off alone. This resulted in the entire family having a strict eight o'clock curfew.

John was sat upright in bed, typing on his laptop, Sherlock in the bathroom shaving his face. Eve was curled up on the other side. He turned towards her and his face softened. 'Eve?' he called. She rolled over to face him. He closed the laptop and patted his leg. 'Come here.'

The girl obediently crawled over and climbed onto his lap, head under his chin. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his mouth and nose in her hair. 'Dad's sorry about today,' he mumbled, rocking slightly. 'I know it's been very difficult for you but… you need to tell us about how you feel, not take it out on the girls at school.'

'But she made me so _angry,'_ Eve sniffed. 'I just wanted to smack her. I just wanted…' Eve stopped, unable to explain: she just wanted Darcy to understand.

John rubbed her arm. 'Evie, you've got PTSD.'

'Post-traumatic stress disorder?'

'Yes. It can make you feel very angry and alone and afraid… but taking it out on other people won't help it.' He met her gaze, face set in seriousness. 'I don't want you to think that what that horrible man did to you was normal. I don't want to think that it will happen again. It _won't_; Daddy and I will make _sure _it won't.'

Eve tried to take it all in. She tried to believe him. But something about it wasn't over. Something about it wasn't right… and as she stared out of the dark window, realized that deep within her, a storm was coming…

**Tune in next week for a pretty tense chapter *smiles evilly*. Until then PLEASE REVIEW! Do think we can hit 50 reviews this week? Xxx**


	22. Chapter 22

**Hello! Sorry I was a little slow on the update this week but I've been a wee bit ill... warnings for injury detail.**

**Please review, it makes me feel special ;3**

* * *

The dust had shifted.

It was always a bad sign. Deep down Eve knew that it was probably because they'd taken down the Christmas decorations, but nonetheless it worried her.

The house was barren. There was an eerie pindrop silence. This was the first time Eve had been left alone in two months and each tiny sound sent her heart racing. The boiler in the kitchen clanked. Eve flinched and a shudder was sent down her spine. She grabbed her glass of water from the side and drank rapidly, eyes wayward, desperately trying to distract from her growing panic. Callously she tipped the glass and water dribbled onto her shirt. She began to choke, punching her own chest and raking in air. Her eyes stung and her breaths picked up pace, getting faster and faster until she was shrieking and seeing nothing and her throat was closing in. She grasped at her own neck, counting backwards from ten in her head like Daddy had told her to do. Eventually her breathing regulated. She leaned over the counter and took deep, steady breaths, wiping at her wet face.

She tried to settle on the sofa but couldn't; she seemed frozen there, unable to turn around and let her guard down for a second. Eventually sweat fused her shirt to her back and it was a wonder she didn't melt into the sofa like a hot knife through butter.

There was a knock on the door.

Not a polite tap of the knuckles, a rough, fierce punch that caused Eve to whip around.

She got up from the sofa and cautiously slunk down the stairs, each bare foot wobblier than the last. The thumping continuing. Then came rattling; Someone was shaking the frame of the door. Someone tall, someone strong.

Eve stopped still, foot drawn to a halt. Her eyes were wide with terror. She was glued to the spot.

Ash began to shiver down from the door's frame before it slammed open. A glimpse through the mottled glass.

No.

It couldn't be.

The second door smacked with such force that it dented the wall.

Geoff stood there, grimy orange jumpsuit, livid face, and a Thompson rifle aimed at Evie's chest.

Her heart dropped into her stomach like a dull rock.

He fired.

Eve whipped around as the first couple of shots slammed into the handrail.

She hared upstairs. She tripped thrice, each time sure it would be her last.

A turning into her bedroom. She pivoted on the landing. A bullet almost blasted her hand open. Into the room. Idiot… _Idiot!_ No windows, only one way out; She would die in this room.

His form blocked out the light of the landing. Her eyes flew wildly around the room. Something, anything she could throw. Bed, wardrobe… too big. Teddies… too small. He thundered in behind her, still shooting. Before she could scream he seized her by the throat collar and dragged her up the length of the wall. She was suspended with one big hand as he flipped her manically, wringing her neck.

Her hand flew forwards and slapped his face. In a split second of surprise he dropped the gun and it skidded across the floor. He let Eve crash to the ground, whole room shaking and spinning as he reached back for the firearm. Eve tried to push past him into the landing.

She did. She made it to the door, screaming her throat raw, tripping down the stairs… but his arms were back around her. She flailed and kicked. He covered her mouth with his hand and wrestled her into the bedroom, shoving her onto the floor. She opened her mouth to scream. The pillow from her bed came down over her face.

No matter how she screamed, no noise came out. Tears stung her eyes. Her chest contorted, choked, floundering. She kicked desperately but he pressed harder on her nose and mouth. His hand was heavy and relentless. It blocked out light. It crushed her nose hard, bone-on-bone, until it splintered and blood gushed from her face, down her throat, choking her.

Eve gave one final thrash—a heavy kick—and somehow, somehow, slid from under him. Stars danced in front of her eyes. She took one huge breath and shot upright like a bullet. Her broken nose throbbed with sour warmth. She scurried away from him as he took two blundering steps, trying to reach her. The lamp on her cabinet shuddered with each movement.

She'd reached the end of the room. His body overshadowed her. She was cornered. Her brain spewed out in panic, heart racing _No, no, no, no!_

All of a sudden she dived for the cabinet. He managed to grab her legs, leaving her suspended, reaching desperately for the lamp. One wriggle and he dropped her. Her chest smacked the corner of the cabinet. She yanked at the light fitting. She tugged the plug from its socket. He charged towards her like a bull and she forced the wire of the lamp around his thick throat, one, two, three times.

Shocked, he crashed to the ground, grappling desperately at the cord around his neck. The light fitting swung manically. Eve yanked the pink wire taunt until it cut into his flesh, propped up on her elbows, pushing against his head with her feet, slowly squeezing the life out of him…

* * *

_'__What do you mean he's escaped!? How!?' _

'We don't _know _Sherlock! That prison should have been air-tight!'

Sherlock cut the call. He jogged his knee restlessly as the cabbie pulled up outside 221b. He shot out to the bullet-buckled door.

Oh god no, _please no!_

He raced upstairs, mouth desert-dry. _'__Eve!' _he screamed. _'__Eve!'_

The door of her room was wide open, choked noises coming from within.

Perhaps there's still time.

He slammed through, heart racing, seeing them both sprawled on the floor. At first he thought Geoff was strangling Eve… but he wasn't.

Eve was strangling Geoff.

Her muscles quivered, blood spread in five different directions across her face like a great red star. She clenched her eyes shut, blocking out the nauseating sound of tearing flesh.

And Sherlock just stood there, utterly stunned, face stark white. 'Eve…' he tried to say. It came out as a choked whisper. 'Let him go.' His throat felt full, as if he were about to cry. His eyes were unblinking. 'Eve, let him go.'

The last specks of colour drained from his face, and Eve was yanking at a dead man's throat. 'Eve_. Stop.'_ A little louder now. 'Eve, _stop!'_

Eve still pulled, the cord gouging deeper into his throat, almost severing his head completely.

_'__Eve, Stop!'_ He suddenly sprang forwards and hauled Eve from the ground. She let out a huge cry, throwing the cord back onto the floor. Sherlock tried to hold her, tried to bury her face in his torso, but she pushed him away, screaming unintelligibly, tears streaming down her face. On shaky feet she backed away into the corner of the room and slid down the wall, blurrily watching Sherlock kneel beside the man.

The detective watched as blood accumulated beneath the man's neck. His head was almost dismembered, a huge slice of throat missing. His bug eyes were wide with terror and his jaw was spilt open. Sherlock sighed and dropped his head. 'Oh Eve,' he muttered softly. 'What have you done?'

Suddenly Eve sprung up. She was racing towards him, pounding his back with her fists. Startled, Sherlock fell back. _'__GET OUT!' _she screamed, still punching_. 'GET OUT! LEAVE ME ALONE G-GET OUT!'_

He grabbed her wrists. It took nothing at all to restrain her but she didn't stop. A curtain of black hair fell over her face as she thrashed and bucked insanely. 'GET OUT! GET OUT!' she parroted, driving Sherlock backwards out of the room. He stumbled out onto the landing, dazed as she slammed her bedroom door shut.

In that second his heart raced wildly and cold sweat stung his body. He opened his mouth but couldn't speak.

He couldn't believe it.

His baby was a murderer…


	23. Chapter 23

**Again, sorry about the late update but I've had a music exam this week and have been violently playing the violin till three in the morning and receiving death threats from my older brother in doing so.**

**Enjoy!**

Sherlock laid his forehead against the cool wall. From inside her bedroom, Eve was still screaming. In the ten minutes they'd been alone, she'd managed to barricade herself inside.

The door smacked open and John's panicked voice came up the stairs. 'Eve!? _Eve!?_ Sherlock! Where's Eve!?' Sherlock peeled himself from the wall. On hearing Eve's screams John ran faster. 'EVE!' He ran straight into Sherlock's torso, who took hold of his arms. He jerked John's alarmed face towards him, his eyes wide and foggy with terror, his mouth slightly ajar. 'Sherlock, what… what happened?'

Sherlock was still, although he dug his fingers into John's arms. He tried to crane past him towards Eve's bedroom, where the sound of her screaming still resounded. 'What happened? Is she hurt?'

Again, Sherlock said nothing. His face was inscrutable; John couldn't tell if he was angry or concentrating or in deep pain. _'__Sherlock!'_

'Geoff's dead,' he muttered. He let his hands flop from John's arms and dangle by his sides.

John met eyes and then looked down, frowning in confusion. He rearranged his feet. 'So?'

Sherlock turned slowly to face him. 'Geoff got out of prison. He came here and attacked Eve. Then Eve-'

He stopped, took a deep breath and continued. 'Strangled him to death.'

John looked like he might start laughing, face poised in disbelief. '…What?'

'Eve strangled Geoff to death with the cord of her lamp.'

'What?'

'I walked in, and saw Eve strangling Geoff.'

'What?'

Sherlock gave John a strange glance. The man was staring straight forwards, eyebrows twitching as if desperately trying to fit the pieces together.

'Oh… shit,' he whispered. Then he brought both hands up, slowly and thickly rubbing them from his chin to his hair. 'Oh _shit!'_ He snapped them down to his sides, then back up again, then turned around, walked one pace away, and turned back. 'What the_fuck_ are we going to do?!' he hissed.

Suddenly Sherlock's phone rang in his pocket. He dismissed John and flipped it out; Mycroft.

'I could cover it up for you,' he said tiredly.

Sherlock frowned. 'You've been spying on me.'

'Of course I have; I shan't have you losing my niece again.' He rolled his eyes. 'I'm sorry we were late getting there, but the whole thing happened in under three minutes.'

'What do you mean cover it up?'

'Cover it up?' John mouthed.

'I know a man who can scrub her room within an inch of its life; the blood won't even show up positive when they're using hyperspectral imaging devices on it.'

Sherlock mulled it over in his head for a second. 'No.'

'No? Would you rather she landed in jail?'

Sherlock rung off. 'No? No what?'

'Mycroft was going to try and cover it up.'

John's eyes grew wide with anger. 'And you turned him down!?'

'It wouldn't be good for her!'

'It's better than sending the poor girl to _prison!'_

'John, she won't _go _to prison; she's only six!'

'What will happen to her then? Are they just going to let her get away with it? Are they not going to punish her at all? Wake _up_ Sherlock!'

The detective said nothing, and in his silence, heard Eve groaning like an animal in pain. He dropped his voice. 'What kind of a lesson will we be teaching if we let her get away with it!?' he hissed. 'She's already got PTSD… can you imagine what will happen if we force her to keep this a secret too!?'

His phone buzzed. A text from Mycroft saying: "get her to the hospital, she's got a broken nose."

Sherlock pulled a face and delved the phone back into his pocket.

'Well… well what if we pretend that one of _us_ did it?'

He shook his head. 'No.'

'Then what _are_ we going to do? If you think I'm sending my own daughter to prison you can think again!'

Another text: "get her to hospital and continue arguing there."

'John, she _needs_ to do this… she's too young for Juvie, and she'll hardly be punished if we explain that it was self-defense.'

'It'll stretch to charges of manslaughter!'

'John, a jury will be there. My guess is that they'll sympathize more with a sexually abused six year old than an escaped murderer.'

A third text: "get her to the hospital or I'm sending a SWAT team."

Sherlock sighed heavily, dragging a hand over his face. His face was as stiff as wood, his eyes hard. He looked straight at John and said in a semi-hopeless voice: 'She's got a broken nose; we'll take her to the hospital and then…then drive her up to the police station.'

John's face fell, although he seemed drained of any anger. His shoulder's drooped and his head hung as he realized that this was a battle he couldn't win. He fell against Sherlock's chest who held him there, stroking his flaxen hair.

**Thank you for reading, reviews would be very much appreciated! **


	24. Chapter 24

From outside Sherlock heard the crunch of gravel. He pulled John away and looked out of the window, where a sleek black car had pulled up. His phone chimed:

"We were coming to get her anyway —Mycroft"

Sherlock sighed and shifted his jaw, as if literally chewing unspoken words. He joined John outside Eve's door and rapped his knuckles on the wood. 'Eve? You're going to have to come outside now.'

Silence.

Annoyed, he knocked again. 'Eve?'

Not a whimper traveled through the wood. 'Eve, open this door right now.'

'Right I'm breaking the bloody thing down,' John muttered, shrugging his arms out of his jacket. But before he could do anything the door began to slowly open.

Eve stood there sniveling, head hung. Her skin was a shade of translucent, her eyelashes spiked with tears. John dropped down to her level. 'Look up sweetheart, let Daddy see,' he tilted her face upwards by the chin and stroked the hair away from it; blood dribbled unchecked into her mouth, and her button nose was minutely dented but unmistakably broken. John stretched at her skin and the dried blood cracked like mosaic. 'Oh dear… that's a nasty break.'

Eve said nothing. She didn't react when John twitched at her skin. She didn't move when Sherlock tried to take her hand. She didn't stiffen when he picked her up under the armpits and carried her down the stairs.

To John's surprise there was no Anthea in the back of the car but Mycroft himself. Sherlock was sure a snarky comment was in order but instead he was strangely subdued, paying his brother a mere comforting nod as the four were driven up to the hospital.

Eve was sat huddled against the door, dragging her finger across the window. Sherlock knew that she knew he was watching her, but he couldn't help it… he just couldn't believe that she'd_killed _someone. John thought back to the time when Elizabeth called Charlotte rough; he wondered what she'd say if he told her that Eve was a murderer.

When John and Eve were in the hospital Sherlock had to take a step outside. The cold air slapped his face and yanked at his coat lapels. He leaned forwards, hands on his knees, taking deep breaths and trying not to burst into tears.

'Cigarette?' Mycroft piped up. Startled, Sherlock jumped into an upright position and hastily wiped his face. His brother was leaning on his umbrella, a cigarette held horizontally between his finger and thumb.

'Thanks,' he muttered, placing it between his lips. Mycroft lit it and Sherlock slowly inhaled its sweet smokiness, the dizziness clearing from his head.

'So how do you feel?'

Sherlock frowned. 'How… how do I _feel?'_

'Yes.'

'Why do you _care?'_

'Come now, I know you're not made of stone… and your daughter _has_ just killed someone.' Sherlock gave a dismissive grunt and inhaled again.

'It was manslaughter,' he muttered.

'Exactly,' Mycroft said, blowing a perfect smoke ring. Sherlock watched him jealously. 'It must be odd reporting Eve when it should be _you _who gets punished.'

He frowned. _'__What?'_

'Isaac Karim. You've been a busy boy,' he dropped the stub of the cigarette on the wet asphalt. 'Your six year old daughter will get convicted for defending herself but you'll get off scotch free for torturing and murdering a man.'

Sherlock dropped his head guiltily. 'You knew?'

'Of course I _knew!'_ He glanced down and then sniffed, his voice suddenly a lot softer. 'My offer is still open you know. I could cover it up for you… she doesn't deserve punishment.'

'No. I've decided.' He drained the last of his cigarette. 'She'd never be able to keep it a secret… and even if she did bottle it up it would only diminish her mental health. She'd have a breakdown after all that's happened,' he turned to face his brother. 'It's too much stress for a little girl. If she faces the consequences then…'

He ducked his head and lit another cigarette, hands shaking. It all made so much more sense in his head; if she faces the consequences like she should do then nothing bad will happen.

'It's the right thing to do,' Mycroft said.

'Oh. Um…thank you.'

'Don't think it a compliment; it's an exceptionally _stupid _thing to do, but it's the right thing.' He cocked his head to one side. 'How are you so sure there'll be no repercussions?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Too young for borstal… the most they'll do is send a social worker over to check that she's not living with psychos.'

'Yes, well, I wouldn't be too optimistic. What's the plan if she gets taken away?'

He exhaled. 'Shoot everyone.'

'Ah. So not always Mr. Morality then?'

Sherlock was about to walk back into the building before Mycroft called him back. He turned.

'What?'

Mycroft beckoned him over. Sherlock rolled his eyes and dragged his feet and stood beside his brother. Mycroft spent a second clenching and unclenching the handle of the umbrella. He looked around him, ignoring Sherlock's expectant gaze. 'Are you not curious about… James?' He uttered the last word like he'd just spoken a terrible swear.

'James? Who the hell is James?'

'The one who got away. The only man to escape the police. Here.' He handed a confused Sherlock his phone, where a neat fact file on James had been drawn up.

'…So?'

Mycroft's face was set in all seriousness like stone. He rearranged his body as if about to deliver huge news. 'Sherlock… have you _really_ no idea that this man has been stalking your family for the past five years?'

Sherlock's eyes grew wide. '_What!?'_

Mycroft repeated himself calmly. 'John, Eve and you have been stalked for the past five years… Don't feel too bad though; it only took me so long to find out.'

Sherlock felt dizzy, stricken. Suddenly the name James had a whole new meaning. It ran sickening sirens through his brain. James Moriarty? It couldn't be. No. He was dead. There was no way it could be him. 'Stalked?' he parroted dumbly.

'Yes. He was also the man who offered a suspiciously high amount to buy Eve.'

The detective felt sick, half shocked and half ashamed that this had slipped under his radar for so long.

'Be careful, Sherlock,' Mycroft said as he turned, dazed to go back into the hospital. His mind raced with new thoughts. 'The streets aren't safe; sooner or later he'll be after you.'

Sherlock could only nod stupidly as he swung open the double doors and made his way up to the children's ward. Mycroft stared after him for a long time, concern tugging at his features. 'Be careful,' he said again, and then a third time, so quiet it was a mutter: 'Be careful.'

**Just a little note that I may not update for a while as next Saturday I will be off to America for 3 weeks. I'm sorry to make you wait! (hopefully it will be worth it ;D ) Reviews would be really lovely!**


	25. Chapter 25

The body was taken away on a long white stretcher.

John asked if he could clear away the blood. The medics refused, saying that it would be a ravage of potential evidence. Eve's face was a flat, milky white. She'd been sent home with a slightly crooked nose after a barrel-chested nurse yanked the cartilage into place and told her to get over herself. Now Eve watched solemnly as the body was carried out of the bedroom, thinking of that face underneath, that weirdly handsome face with huge bug eyes that belied his insanity. She lodged a thumb in her mouth and began to suck. Sherlock frowned at her; he'd never seen her do that before. Mycroft stood in the landing, cool and calm as always. A grin flashed across his face, just fleetingly, as he saw the man's dead body being carted away. It was apparent how much hate he felt for his niece's captor.

Mycroft had proved an important cog in Eve's emancipation. The girl was wobbly-legged as she was led into the police station, her face struck with a look of wise pain, as if she understood the gravity of her crime. Nonetheless she squeezed John's hand tightly and whispered: 'Am I going to prison Daddy?' John looked down, unsure of what to say. He didn't want to lie and give her a definite no; Common Law couldn't be bent to fit the convenience of a six year old. He eventually gave her an unintelligible grunt. Her fingernails dug deep into the side of his hand.

'Will I get a life sentence like Geoff?'

'No sweetheart.'

'How do you know?'

'I just do.'

Mycroft tapped him on the shoulder. John stopped and turned around. 'I've already filed the report,' he said. 'Minimum charge will be imposed… although a social worker will be coming over to check the home, make sure she's in safe hands.'

John felt his body sting in the sweat of relief. 'Oh thank God!' He looked up. 'Thank you Mycroft.'

'Don't thank me, thank the British Government,' he said, although he looked pleased.

Sherlock was also stood in Eve's room, his arms folded in the perfect rectangle behind his body. He'd completely forgotten to comfort his daughter. Instead his mind was frenzied as he tried to figure out any way that Moriarty could have survived. Anything he tested was ridiculously flawed. His brain danced all the way over to thoughts of clones and doubles.

Eve trudged out of the room, sick of staring at the sticky puddle of blood on the floor. For the past half hour she'd been watching it clot and congeal and the spectacle had made her rather nauseous. She crossed over the landing, hardly glancing Mycroft's way, and shut herself in John and Sherlock's room.

A deadly silence spanned the home. Outside rain pounded the window, a potent bouquet of metal, rotting flora and tangy earth. Lestrade came over to inspect Eve's bedroom, a look of dazed disbelief on his face. 'How did she _do_ it Sherlock?' he asked, as Donovan gave him an I-knew-your-kid-was-a-psychopath look.

Sherlock shrugged. 'Cord of the lamp,' John said eventually, gesturing to the Disney princess lamp that was lying on its side and maroon with dried blood. He thought back to the night before she'd been kidnapped, when he turned from the room and saw her long dark curls illuminated by that lamp. So much had changed.

At last night-time came. Scotland Yard packed up and left. John and Sherlock got into bed, where Eve was lying pensively. John fixed some cushions for her to sleep upright on so she didn't roll onto her nose and lay beside her.

A car sped past 221b. Sirens wailed. High-heels clacked on shiny asphalt. Two men on ladders swore as they dismantled Christmas lights. Life went on. 'Oh god Sherlock,' John breathed. 'What happened to our little girl?'

Sherlock exhaled slowly, like a deflating balloon. He checked to see if Eve was definitely asleep and held the gaze on her face.

_'__Tissel, tissel!' Eve whined, as John unwound the last piece of tinsel from the tree. The two year old was sat on her padded bottom in the centre of the living room, her thicket of black curls tied into a bobble. _

_'__Sorry Eve, the tinsel has to go away now,' he said, leaning his hands on the caps of his knees. He scooped her up and rested her on his hip where she stretched out an arm to try and bat at the dried branches, as if punishing it for dying. Pine needles rained onto the carpet. _

_'__Tissel,' she said again, disappointment in her voice. Eve dropped her head, gravity dragging the ponytail forwards. _

_'__It'll come back next year,' John said, sighing. Gone was the rich rustle of Christmas, the smell of pine and cinnamon and snow. And gone was John and Sherlock's tiny baby; she'd blossomed into a toddler with sticky red cheeks and smiling eyes and lashings of London in her voice. It almost surprised John to look into her mopey face and see how much she'd grown. So much bigger than before, yet still a virgin to the cruelties of the world. And he hoped to god it would stay that way. _

Sherlock turned back, not answering John. The guilt was so heavy within him that he felt like someone was sitting on his chest, crushing him with their weight. He thought back to Isaac Karim, the man he had mercilessly tortured and left hanging by his throat. He thought about Eve, desperately trying to shield herself from a murderer.

Mycroft was right; the wrong person was being punished. The tables were turned and it was all his fault.

**Again, I am so sorry about the delay but I've been in the amazing US of A! (Seriously, y'all are so nice and pleasant there like what?) I was meant to get this chapter up yesterday but was full of jetlag (Uuuuugggghhhh.)**

**Reviews would be very much appreciated :D **


	26. Chapter 26

At long last, winter melted into spring. Arable fields were tilted, pastoral and pleasant, level meadows with streams flowing through them and the pale sun spread across them. London still bustled with life, uniform red-brick homes, city walls punctuated at intervals with turrets, noisy buses and streets packed with people—but now each street pave was shrouded with cherry-blossom. Each patch of green land was covered with daffodils and tulips and the infamous English Rose.

Despite the glory of nature that was unfolding outside, the Holmes family stayed tightly shuttered inside their home. 'Sherlock?'

'Hm?'

'Open the window a bit, she'll be coming over soon,' John leaned over, pot of tea in one hand, and yanked the heavy drape from the window. With it ash and dust cascaded down, buzzing wildly through the air. Light flooded the room and Sherlock ducked down to shield himself from it.

For the past week Sherlock had been his usual turbulent self; he'd near driven himself to insanity trying to figure out how Moriarty could have survived. Sometimes John would hear him muttering to himself and place a comforting hand on his shoulder, only for Sherlock to jerk away like a jittery cat. The man hadn't washed. He hadn't shaved or slept or changed his clothes. Nothing about him screamed Supportive. John was terrified that the social worker would see him unfit to be a father.

The detective kneeled down and glared at two clay models. He was trying to figure out a perfect position that Moriarty could have used to fire the gun and prevent death. Not taking his heavy eyes from them, he lifted his cup of cooled coffee and downed it like a lukewarm shot. John squeezed past him and rearranged the pillows on the sagging sofa, sweeping weeks' worth of clutter from the coffee table straight into a bin bag. 'Eve!' He called. There was no response. 'Oh for the love of—_Eve!'_

_'__What?'_

_'__Are you dressed yet?'_

_'__No!'_

John abandoned the bin bag and stomped towards his daughter's bedroom. On the way he yanked a fistful of Sherlock's greasy curls, keeping his head suspended.

'Put some clothes on!' he hissed. He dropped Sherlock's head. _' Now.'_

He slammed into Eve's room, snatching up the starchy white dress he wanted her to wear. 'Look at you, your hair isn't even brushed…' Sherlock stood, feeling suddenly dizzy, and scratched his own chin. Straggly black stubble lined his jaw.

'Don't _wanna_ get dressed!' he heard Eve whine. 'My tummy hurts!' There was a bang and a clatter and the slap of skin on skin as John yanked her wrist.

For the past week, since she'd killed Geoff, Eve had been a nightmare. She'd been sullen and grizzly and fractious, blowing her top over the smallest of things. Sherlock knew by now that she was merely trying to pick a fight to help her cope. Gain control or attention. Vent her anger. He lifted the empty coffee cup to his mouth before realizing there was nothing in it, listening to the sound of John chasing Eve around her bedroom. Eventually the two sprang out of the door, Eve wearing knickers and a vest, John pink in the face from running. He was holding the dress out in front of him like a matador tempting a bull. Eve stood at the door, preparing herself to dive past him. Before she could move Sherlock seized her from behind and lifted her into the air. She growled and kicked as John wrestled the dress over her head of tangled curls. 'You've got to look decent,' he urged, narrowly missing a blind swipe of Eve's hand. 'Or the social worker will take you away.'

'I wish she _would!'_ Eve snarled. Sherlock knew it meant nothing. He knew it was just an empty childish insult. But he still felt something cold and bitter spread through his chest.

'Don't sass me young lady!' John said warningly, struggling to yank the skirt over her knees. Sherlock gave a huff of effort, hitching her higher. When she was finally clothed she sauntered off huffily and sat cross-legged on the floor. She muttered to herself, piling wooden bricks on top of each other and then knocking them down again and again. With every crash she'd spit the word "Bad." Sherlock sat on the sofa watching her awhile, his brow furrowed with concern. Sometimes she'd pick up two bricks and mutter something pitchy and quiet under her breath, making them talk. He heard the words Kill and Tight. He saw her bang the bricks together, her eyebrows drawn together angrily. Once she'd finished banging them she muttered 'Bad. Bad, bad girl. Bad little bitch.' Sherlock's eyebrows shot up at the curse but Eve acted as if nothing had happened, stacking the bricks and repeating the cycle.

John bustled through the home with a tray of biscuits and a pot of Earl Grey. He tried dusting but Sherlock yelled at him to stop. By two o'clock the detective was not yet dressed, and had been sat watching his daughter's disturbing play or fiddling with the clay models. He rearranged Moriarty's malleable arm—Maybe if he'd shot through the temporal lobe he would have hit some useless tissue; the biggest disaster would be a loss of blood, which didn't look too copious… _'Slut,_' he heard Eve hiss, and he whipped around to face her. She was rocking, her skirt pulled up and her nails deep in her thighs. He gawked, horrified at what she was doing.

'Eve! Stop that!' Eve snapped out of her trance and faced him.

'Stop what?' she said, her eyes wide and innocent. Sherlock's eyes danced between her peaky face and the hand clawing at her bare leg.

'You're hurting yourself! Let go of your leg right now!' She snatched her hand away like her thigh was red-hot. Five pink crescent-shaped moons were arched deeply across her leg.

Sherlock's heart raced with shock. 'What… what were you doing?' he asked casually, although he already knew. Nausea sloshed in his stomach as he thought of his daughter depicting her rape with two wooden bricks and her own self-hatred.

'Nothing,' she said, picking the bricks up and making them fly to divert her father's attention.

'Evelyn Ada Holmes, don't lie to me! What was tha—'

But before he could finish speaking the doorbell chimed. John stopped dead in his tracks and met eyes with his husband. Eve was gone in a flurry of white skirts and tumbled bricks, scared to meet the lady who'd take her away. Sherlock fell back on the sofa, shutting his eyes and folding his hands under his chin. John swallowed, tugging at his pressed collar which suddenly seemed far too tight.

A dark figure shone through the mottled glass. John opened the door. An exceptionally tall woman stood there, wearing a brown corduroy jacket and calf length riding boots. She was around late fifties, with a geometrically perfect brown bob and small square glasses. Her face was rectangular, features aquiline, her pursed lips painted bright red in an unsuccessful effort to mask their natural thinness.

'Hello,' she said with a plummy voice. 'Is this the Holmes' residence?'

'Yes,' John said, shooting her a crooked smile. 'Yes it is, would you like to come through?' The woman stepped into the hallway, looking about her grimly. Mrs. Hudson was nonchalantly polishing the stairs, stealing a sneaky glance at the social worker as she ascended.

Once in the flat she sniffed disdainfully; John had managed to clear away most of the clutter, but he couldn't budge the stacks of paper Sherlock had hoarded over the years or the stubborn grime in the kitchen. She reached into a leather hunting satchel and brought out a notebook. On it she scrawled: "Holmes house, Evelyn Holmes- dusty. Toys not tidied away. Father" she frowned at Sherlock who was lying flat on the sofa with his eyes closed. "Dressed inappropriately, unkempt, dirty."

John felt a lump clot in his throat as he read over her shoulder. Dressed inappropriately? He was hardly wearing fishnets and a pink mankini. Nonetheless he politely offered her his chair. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' he asked, gesturing to the spread of uniform biscuits and good China he had laid out on the table. Sherlock laughed scornfully.

'May as well have offered her a cup of blood,' he muttered. He met filmy eyes with the woman. 'For the record the cups aren't filthy.'

The woman perched on the arm of John's chair and wrote feverishly. 'No thank you,' she said. With her gaze averted John mimed at Sherlock to Shut Up, his face furious. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and yanked a cushion over his face. 'Do you have a fridge?' she asked, and John felt his heart drop into his stomach.

The fridge was in need of dire attention; for five years no one but Sherlock had touched it (the food was stored in a blue cooler.) Sweat prickled John's back as he tried to catch Sherlock's eye to see if he'd left anything incriminating in there. 'Um… yes, but we keep the food in a cooler.' The woman ignored him, walking into the kitchen. She swung the door open and did a double-take. She jumped backwards, dropping the notebook with a clatter, yanking her panic alarm from her chest and holding it out in front of her like a crucifix. When she whipped around to face John she was a ghostly white.

'What… wh-what are those!?' She pointed a shaking finger towards the contents of the fridge, where three slabs of skin were stretched out on metal frames with bullet holes shot through them.

'Human cadaver,' Sherlock answered brightly. 'I needed to test the different angles in which bullets penetrate tissue.'

'I am so sorry,' John said, closing the door and trying to lead her away. 'My husband, he does controlled experiments… Eve doesn't go near the fridge. We keep our food in a cooler, see?' He lifted the lid of the cooler, trying to show her. Her hands fluttered to her chest as the flipped the panic alarm towards her large bosom, clearly still shaken.

'Um, yes, speaking of Eve, would you mind if I had a word with her?'

'Of course. Eve!' John called. 'Come out sweetheart! The social worker would like to speak with you!'

Three seconds passed before Eve's door slowly clicked open. Soon after a bare leg crept around, then a bunchy white dress with the sash unraveled, and the rest of her. Eve blinked at the woman, fear in her eyes; for the past week John and Sherlock had been feeding her stories about the scary social worker who had the power to take her away forever. Eve may have been a smart child, but she still believed everything her daddies told her.

The social worker stretched her thin red lips into a smile. 'Hello there,' she said, trying to be friendly. 'My name is Mrs. Brown. Would it be alright if I asked you some questions?' Eve nodded briskly, her messy curls springing. Mrs. Brown turned to John. 'I'll be speaking to her in her bedroom. Alone. Is that understood?' John nodded, feeling about Eve's age. His daughter swallowed, terrified as usual to be left alone with a stranger. He mouthed 'It's alright' at her before the door slammed shut behind them.

John spun around, glared at Sherlock and mouthed with extreme, theatrical panache _'What was that!?'_

Sherlock was still. 'Human remains!?' John hissed, his hands flying about wildly to punctuate his anger. 'Bullet wounds, mouthing her off what _was_ that!?' He stood nearer, his voice steady and serious. 'You do realize what's at stake here don't you? If you don't start shaping up Eve will get taken away and I will do whatever it takes to keep her, including leaving you if need be. I mean it Sherlock; _Shape Up.'_

He gave a long sigh and eventually sat up on the edge of the sofa. John turned away and strained to hear what was being said behind the door.

'… And do your daddies ever leave you on your own?'

'Well… um…' Eve struggled to find the best response. 'Not really. Mrs. Hudson is always downstairs.'

'Good girl,' John found himself mutter.

'Tell me Eve, do you have big coats and jackets and cardigans?'

'Yes.'

'Could you show me?' There was scrambling and the sound of a wardrobe door being opened. 'Wow! So you must be nice and warm in the wintertime eh?'

'Yes.'

There was a pause as she made notes. 'Right. Very good. Eve, would you mind sitting next to me on the bed?' The bed springs groaned and the woman dropped her voice to a whisper. 'Now this is a very important question Eve, between just you and me…' John craned closer. He heard Eve shift away, clearly hating the intimacy she was having with this strange woman. '…Have either of your daddies ever hit you?' Her voice was gentle. Soothing. John could tell she must do this often.

'They've never hit me.'

'Are you sure? Have they ever hurt you?'

'No.'

'Have they ever shown you naughty grown up things like pictures of people with no clothes on?'

'No.'

'Have they ever touched you in private places or made you touch them?'

John listened, disgusted at the notion. As if they'd ever dream of treating Eve in such a way.

'No.' Eve gave a hefty sigh, plucking at the bedspread.

'Well done Eve, you've been a little star,' the bed springs groaned again as the woman stood. John immediately struck an over-casual pose, trying to act like he hadn't been listening in as she opened the door into the living room. Her lips were pursed tight and her arms were folded across her chest. 'Gentlemen. A word.' She sat in John's armchair opposite the two, her mouth stretched into an unappealing grin. 'Now, it seems as if you two have been struggling just a tiny bit…'

'Oh here we go,' Sherlock muttered. John stood on his bare foot to silence him.

'There are some major shortcomings in the inspection. Firstly: I noted that the place was "dusty and not very clean,"' she lowered the notebook. 'Eve isn't asthmatic is she?'

'No.'

'Thank heavens—"The father was dressed inappropriately, and unkempt." Mr. Holmes I hardly think it appropriate to be wearing a dirty dressing gown in the middle of the day. I also noticed some nicotine patches on your arms, although there is no indication that cigarettes have been smoked in here.' Sherlock looked upon her squarely. He picked up the violin, propping it on his knee, and plucked an atonal motif. '…The kitchen clearly needs some attention—_disturbing _specimens found in the fridge, highly inappropriate to be in the same place as a child, and a dirty worktop.' She flicked to a third page. 'My discussion with Eve went well, she is well cared for, the room is tidy, she has appropriate winter clothes, but I think you'll agree that there is some urgent work that needs to be done.'

'You'll give us a deadline, won't you?' Sherlock said tiredly. She bristled and stood up straight.

'One week, Mr. Holmes,' she said, her voice short and sharp. 'One week to improve her living quarters or she will be taken into care.' She marched to the door and yanked it open. 'Good day.' It slammed shut behind her, making the lamp on the coffee table shudder.

John and Sherlock met eyes, both thinking the same thing: This is very, very bad.

**Well, I'm glad to draw to a close the freakin longest winter ever (seriously I've been writing winter for seven months)**

**Reviews would be adored as always and thank you SO MUCH for reading! xxx**


	27. Chapter 27

'I can't believe you,' John muttered. His head was bent, hands on knees. He was sat on the arm of the sofa, glaring at a patch of exposed floorboards.

Sherlock paced next to him, fastening the last button of his suit jacket. His face was freshly shaven and clean, yet held the distant, impassive glance of a man in deep thought. 'You could have at least_ tried_ I mean…' He brushed at his cheek as if wiping invisible tears. 'What will happen to her now? She can't go into care she can't be away from us you know how she hates strangers and—'

'I'll speak to Mycroft.'

'Mycroft? He's hardly father material.'

'He took care of her when she was a baby.'

John scoffed weakly. 'Yeah, and put her nappies on backwards… Sherlock do you understand? Do you… understand what's actually at stake here?'

Sherlock's eyes jolted and fluttered as he struggled to glance in John's direction. He swallowed and said: 'Your sister.'

'An alcoholic.'

'My mother?'

'Ill.'

'Mrs. Hudson?'

'She lives in the same building as us.'

'Um…' His eyes traveled towards the ceiling where a small black bug skittered past. Concern and irritation began to swell within him.

All of a sudden the door clicked open.

There stood Eve, with stringy hair and an outsized dress and bare legs mottled with cold. Sherlock wondered if she'd been crying—her face was dirty in all the right places—but it bore a livid scowl.

'I'm going to get taken away, aren't I?' she said matter of factly.

John rearranged himself on his chair. 'Eve, we don't know that yet… trust me we're going to everything we can to make sure you stay with us.'

She closed the door behind her and stood further into the centre of the room. 'Will I be better off away from here?'

John flinched, taken aback. 'What? No! No Evie of course not!' Eve stared at the ground. 'Why? Do you _want _to stay here?'

She swayed awkwardly and lifted her shoulders up like a turtle retreating to its shell. 'That lady says I'd be better off somewhere else.'

Sherlock's chest clenched in frustration. Was Eve blind? Could she not see how hard they'd tried to take care of her these past couple of months? He found himself glaring at her.

_'__This_ is where you belong Eve. Here, with the men who've raised you since the day you were born.' His voice was cold, baleful, as if warning her not to say another ungrateful word.

Eve's eyes landed on his feet and then grew upwards until she was staring him in the eyes. Those eyes sure did knock the breath out of him. They were so similar to his… invasive, shrewd, a cruel concoction of blue and green. And she returned his patronizing glare with the eyes that held all the pain and wisdom of a soul who'd lived a hundred years.

'Dad…' she said slowly. 'Why… why were you late that day?'

Sherlock stiffened, a guttering weakness shot through him. He said in a voice far too feeble for him: 'I don't know.'

'You don't know?'

'I can't remember.' He turned to leave, only to have Eve snatch his wrist.

'You're _lying,'_ she snarled. 'You remember everything! Just tell me what you were doing that was so important!'

He pulled his wrist back. 'Eve, stop this.'

'Stop_ what!?_

'Stop asking questions!'

_'__Why!?_

_'__Eve!_

She grabbed him, her face splitting as if the pressure of the world was simply too much.

_'__WHY!?'_

_'__EVE!'_

_'__WHY DAD WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME!?' _

She was in hysterics now, tears flowing freely down her face, cheeks red, eyes sad, glistening slits.

_'__DON'T TWIST THIS! WHAT HAPPENED THAT DAY WAS AN ACCIDENT IT… IT WASN'T MY FAULT!'_

Eve's chest heaved, breathing so quickly that a panic attack was imminent. Her hands shook as she dragged hair away from her face. Her fists rattled as if she were considering tearing chunks from her scalp. 'You're working yourself up!' Sherlock said bitterly, and yanked hard on her wrist.

Suddenly it all came flooding back to her—the mental void, the man squeezing her wrists, skin on skin, squeezing her, yanking and pulling, harder and harder, down to her bones, her core, her very being, the hands and the rope on her wrists…

Eve screamed, snapping away and then rearing forwards. She pounded at him with her fists before he had a chance to stop her. Every sense was a trigger, every swing of her arms a slide deeper into this huge black hole that had devoured her from the moment she'd been taken. Her mind was nothing more than a teaming abyss of fear; there was no comforting thought to muffle her screams, no bright future to dry her tears… Eve was trapped like a prisoner in a cell. Trapped in her own mind with no way out.

Sherlock tried to restrain her. He tried to stop her. But she was fixed in blind panic. _'EVE STOP!' _He yelled, trying to gather her arms away from him. She continued to slap and punch as far as she could reach, from his legs to his stomach, just needing condolence, just needing to hurt a man the way a man had hurt her.

_'__EVE!'_ Sherlock continued to holler, but to no avail. He tried wrestling her form away from him but she proved stronger than he'd thought._ 'EVE LET GO OF ME!'_ He was backed blindly into the sharp edge of a table, stumbling and grappling at her floundering arms.

The last shred of patience was stripped away. His eyes shot into a scowl. His hand was drawn back. He seized a fistful of dress, raised her until she was suspended from the ground, and slapped her hard across the face.

Her head jerked. Her whole body was hurtled sideways. Eve tumbled to the ground with a crash, falling flat on her side.

And then she was still.

The fog of anger slid away as quickly as it had come. He stared at his daughter, horror creeping onto his face.

His body had raised mutiny against his will.

A drape of silence fell across the room that had previously been clamorous. The clock ticked. The tap trickled. Sherlock heaved his breaths in and out. John ducked down. Eve stirred and shuddered and dragged herself to her feet. Sherlock didn't see her face. She clung to John, crying soundlessly. John held her tight, his eyes drifted towards his husband's. And they said, with unmistakable clarity: "What _have _you done?"

It was as if he had committed a true sin; he had laid hands on his child, the girl who needed him most in the world, the girl who he had nurtured and protected and promised to keep safe. Bile flooded the back of his throat, he perspired, and crammed his fists against his chest. Something singed his heart, and he realized it had been love. Love was his vice, love would be his downfall. He glanced at his family; the man he loved and the girl he had raised, the bitter humans that had now spawned from his actions. His head blared and burned, and then came a simple conclusion: if he did not leave the room, he would, without a doubt, spontaneously combust.

Holmes turned, slamming the door open and heaving as if he were about to be sick. He hurried down the stairs, his destination unclear, thoughts splashing through his mind. He just needed to get away. Needed to escape the people he'd failed, the lives he'd ruined.

He stumbled into the street, fine rain slicking the black pavement and dusting the windshields of parked cars. There he staggered down the road, dragging his feet, blood pounding in his ears, head a blur. He glanced into the basement flats, of families encased in golden light, sons strung across laps, daughters nestled against arms and parents kissing cheeks. They seemed a world away, those happy, mundane humans with clean floors and cheerful children.

All of a sudden he found himself sinking. He was dropping to his knees in the middle of the street. Plummeting slowly. One last huff of visible air escaped him as he landed with a soft thud on the ground.

Guilt was never a common emotion within him, but as usual, his daughter had festered things from his soul he never would have thought existed.

He sniffed loudly and, to his utter shame, felt tears seeping from his eyes. _"Damn sentiment," _he thought to himself. "_If it weren't for you I'd never have fallen in love with John. I'd never have asked him to marry me, never agreed to a child. If it weren't for you I wouldn't bloody _care _so much about her…"_

He thought about the night they'd realized she was gone, about the pure panic that had overtaken him. He was so petrified of losing her that every day was a struggle, every day he was overtaken with nausea, every day the guilt plundered him to the point of making him weak in the knees.

He curled up small and covered his face with his hands. The night was cold, but every inch of skin felt as if it were on fire. He shuddered and considered what he'd become, what kind of father he'd turned into… Now John hated him, and that hate was well-warranted.

High-heeled shoes clacked the pavement. A Korean couple shuffled past. The number 27 bus chugged along. A jet black car crunched down the road and stopped a foot away.

It was then that Sherlock made his decision; he would leave John. He would get in touch with Mycroft and go back undercover. John would get the flat fixed up and the social worker would be impressed. Eve would thrive in his care. Perhaps, after ten or so years she'd forget that she even had a second father, and Sherlock would become a distant memory in her mind.

A man stepped out of the black car.

Sherlock thought about the woman Eve would grow up to be. He thought of all the basic things he forgot, like making her wear thick tights in the winter or shampooing her hair. These thoughts only induced the conclusion that he was a terrible father.

He stepped promptly down the pavement, his shoelaces messily tied.

Eve would grow to be beautiful. He could see her now; curly black hair and skin so bright and clear that her complexion seemed to glow. She'd have her hair in a messy bun, wear office clothes, be orderly and successful without his influence…

He stopped beside the crouched man and pulled a fat cigar from his jacket pocket.

It would hurt John to see the likeness his daughter bore to Sherlock. Perhaps when he'd wave Eve off to university he'd sit for a very long time in his room of dusty cardboard boxes and think back, fourteen years back, to the man who left that showery April night.

The man hovered awkwardly. He reached into his pocket for a lighter—

All of a sudden, Sherlock felt a hand grab the back of his head, smacking his face into a wall. His nose splintered with the force of the collision as he was dragged backwards roughly by his hair and wrenched to his knees. Shocked, the detective had no time to feel the blood pouring from his face, nor the gun that was now jabbing his temple, before raising his hands.

The man with the cigar brought his face near. He rearranged the gun so it was hidden in the back of Sherlock's neck and hissed: 'Come with me.'

Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest, his eyes wide with shock. Tears were still trickling down his face but he hoped his captor would not mistake them for fear. He heaved three long breaths and said in a voice that was low and calm 'What do you want?'

The man wrapped one hand around Sherlock's shoulder, fingernails digging into his flesh. 'Your co-operation… Come with me.'

Suddenly Sherlock was aware of another presence. He saw two more suit clad men standing at the open boot of the car. In spite of his growing panic, the man decided to push his luck. 'And… if I don't?'

There was a sharp inhale. A weight lifted from his neck, and then, with the force of an iron fist, the barrel of the gun smacked the back of his head.

The pain elicited a yelp, as his body was thrown forward and slammed into the ground. Lights danced before his eyes, a lurid swirl, before the dark ground swallowed him up...

**I'm so sorry I haven't updated but since I posted the last chapter I've had a birthday and restarted school (yippidy doo.)**

**This chapter was a little OOC and I was just SO WORRIED about executing it properly so it didn't sound too forced and just GAHHH! I basically had no idea what you guys would think.**

**Do you think we could hit 70 reviews this time? Please x) ?**

**As always thank you so much for reading!**

**Evangeline xx**


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

Panic.

Wrists stuck together. Place dark, small. His bones went soft. Crushed into the fetal position. Gagged.

He was in a boot. Could hear the road thundering beneath him. Smell the New Car, so overpowering it made him feel sick. Plastic and chemicals.

The space was tight. Limbs packed in tight. Shoulders grazing the roof. He couldn't move. Couldn't wriggle. Stuck there, breathing in that nauseating smell, heart racing.

His eyes began to adjust, staring at nothing in particular. He was breathing. Panting. Faster and faster. Grunting. Walls getting tighter, closing in…

He thrashed and felt something sharp jab his stomach. Still panting, he tried to scrabble for it, wondering if it could help him escape. He was sweating hard, forehead sticky. He wished he could reach up and wipe it.

He grabbed ahold of something thin and rectangular, bringing it as far up as he could to his face. An envelope, brushed with golden glitter. Written with newspaper clippings:

"FoR ShErlocK"

Beside it, a crooked drawing of a smiley face.

His brow bent in confusion, he tried to tear it open with tied hands. A printed sheet of paper slid out and he read with difficulty.

"This contract is issued detailing how my ring shall be run:

•Girls may be sold at auction at a starting bid of ten thousand. Accept nothing less.

•I will not be running any auctions, I will be attending them. I will pay off my own debts.

•At said auctions I will go by the name James and I will wear red.

•None of you will leave this ring. None of you will release information about this ring. If any information is leaked, whether purposefully or not, the penalty is death.

•Capture Evelyn Ada Holmes at address 221b Baker Street London. Do not harm her. I want her alive. If she is marred in any way the penalty is, again, death.

•I have compiled a list of pedophiles on parole. Contact them and lure them to our site. I will be doing most of this myself. I want at least thirty men interested in auction.

•Our first auction will be on the 3rd of September, 2014. Twelve girls will be auctioned.

•The girls will be allowed one drink (dosed with drugs.) They will be given one pit stop on the M40, at the abandoned home at the side of the motorway. DO NOT untie them. Do not ungag them. Keep them sedated at all times.

•Fifty girls can all fit into one van. If stretched out lengthways (tied to the ceiling,) it shouldn't be impossible. Use your imagination.

•Meetings will commence at Michael Pitcher's house. All girls will be kept there until further notice. Michael may keep one girl (alive) at his house at a time. Try to transport them ASAP.

•If you are made suspect, alert me. I will dispose of any witnesses.

M"

His eyes narrowed. Moriarty; He was a part of this, of course… but in charge? He re-read quickly, sloppily, heaving hot tainted air into his lungs. The thought of his daughter being set aside as another man's prize made his stomach lurch. He wondered what Moriarty was planning on doing with her- the thought of this criminal mastermind being an incompetent kiddy fiddler was almost amusing—but Sherlock was far from laughing. A deep, cold guilt spread through him. It was because of _him_ that Eve had been captured. His mortal enemy had used her to achieve the perfect form of torture.

All of a sudden the boot was flung open. The cold air slapped him, stinging his skin. Two men stood, their figures blocking out the moon, the corners of their trench coats snapping in the wind. Just then, looking up at these two strange, scary men, Sherlock felt his daughter's fear. He imagined how it must have felt to be thirty three years younger, defenseless, and utterly clueless to the men's intentions. One man jerked into action, and the spell was broken.

Sherlock was hauled from the boot, eyes and nose stinging from the sudden influx of freezing air. The second man, a spindly, lithe thing with green eyes, tugged the ties on his wrist tighter. The first man bent forwards so that his mouth was by Sherlock's ear. 'No monkey business,' he hissed, and Sherlock felt the sharp jab of a gun against his spine. Ice clogged the back of his throat. The gag was torn from his mouth and he exhaled with force, the vapor of cold air escaping him as if it had been trapped there for an eternity. He dropped his head and breathed deeply before being hurled forwards. He staggered twice, the wind forcing his black curls to dance across his forehead. Before he could react, the two men had each taken an arm and looped their own through it.

The three shuffled down side-alleys, arms linked together like a gaggle of awkward schoolgirls. For the duration of their walk, they came across little disturbance. Only a cluster of men crossed their path. They were a rowdy bunch, bullet-shaped shaven heads and drooping trackie bottoms. One had the English Cross painted across his face. As Sherlock and the two men approached they began a loud, slurred chant:

'Viva John Terry! Viva John Terry! Could've won the cup but he fucked it up, Viva John Terry!'

Consequently, they passed without seeing Sherlock mouth a plea as he was marched down the pavement with a firearm in his back.

At long last the three stopped outside a derelict building. Sherlock's eyes crept up the tall wall; olive green paint was chipped away, and an unintelligible sign hung forlornly, ravaged by woodworm. A square of yellow police tape that had lined the perimeter now fluttered in the wind. The two men were silent as they shoved their captive towards the heavy steel door. Sherlock was cut free of his bindings and left to stand listlessly in front of the doors. He lingered there for a second, awaiting instruction.

'Well, go on then,' the first man muttered. Sherlock took a deep breath, unclenching his hot hand. He placed a palm on the cold, soothing metal, hesitating to push it open as if he were about to enter the gates of hell. The door creaked and groaned and he was overtaken by a musty smell.

He was inside a huge hall. No, more of—a _theatre._ Thick dust caught the light, casting a gloomy film over the strangely familiar space. To his left, a corrugated iron door…

Sherlock's heart stopped in his chest. His eyes swerved down to the parquet flooring and realized that here, on this exact spot, he'd scooped Eve into his arms and told her it was all over. Swallowing down the thick lump that was forming in his throat, he paced with an air of forced composure, waiting patiently for something, anything to happen.

He paced once more. Took in his surroundings, the bare concrete walls, the orchestra pit where spiders had set up home. He thought of Colin with a violin propped on his lap; somehow the image of his ditzy effeminate face was a comfort.

Sherlock began to mutter, growing irritated. He fiddled with his cuffs, swerving promptly on his heel and stomping in a different direction, his back to the stage. 'Just come out,' he wittered to himself. 'Put me out of my bloody misery.'

Then, just within his line of vision, one long angular shadow crept up the length of the wall.

He stopped in his tracks, hot sweat stinging his back. There was a beats pause and with the same eerily soft voice that sent trembles shooting down his spine, it spoke:

'Did you miss me?'

The voice rung through the large, open space. It was then the heart of the detective twitched, shuddered, struck with the realization that they were completely alone.

Sherlock swallowed. He exhaled and raked in three long, shaking breaths. Sniffed, fixed the bottom of his suit jacket.

'How splendid that we meet again,' he said clearly, and turned.

There stood Moriarty, half bathed in shadow, his head bowed and hands in pockets as if posing menacingly for an invisible photo-shoot. 'I had you down as many things,' he continued. Moriarty walked smoothly across the stage. 'A murderer. A psychopath. A world class criminal,'

He chuckled lightly 'Oh _stop_ it!'

'But a pedophile?'

Moriarty smirked, cocking his head to one side. 'Well, I've always been full of surprises.' He turned and sauntered back across the stage. 'Did you like my card? I made it special.'

Sherlock shook his head, breathless with disbelief. He found himself thinking aloud: 'How did you do it?'

'Well I got my gel pens and some glitter and—'

'Your death. How did you fake it. Tell me.'

He stopped, facing Sherlock square. The smirk widened across his face. 'That was a real gun in your hand. A real gun. Empty? Perhaps but if you fired a blank it still would have wounded the roof of your mouth, caused some serious damage to your brain.'

He groaned loudly and rolled his head back on his shoulders like an exasperated teen asked to fix his school uniform. _'Bor_ing!' he whinged. 'Who _cares_ about how I did it, I'm here and that's all that matters.' He began an erratic pace.

Sherlock's fists clenched. He rearranged his jaw.

'Oh alright, fine. There were snipers weren't there?'

'Yes.'

'Snipers with a perfect aim am I right?'

'I suppose…'

'Snipers that could shoot a bullet in the space between our heads without a graze?'

He stopped, evaluating the information. Of _course! _ Moriarty didn't shoot at all, a sniper gun did. That would explain the sound, the impact but not—

'The blood. Fake blood, hidden in the back of my collar.'

There was a temptation then. A temptation to either laugh or cry. Sherlock thought back to the ridiculous far-fetched experiments he'd kept in the fridge. He thought of how each day he almost passed out from exhaustion, his fingers throbbing with the burn of chemicals, his head so full of unanswered questions that it drew him to delirium. And he found himself laughing.

It was a small chuckle at first. Then it grew louder and wider until he was bent double, hands on his knees, laughter ringing from his mouth and down the hall. He was laughing at his own idiocy, his rivals' intelligence, still undecided as to whether Moriarty's plan was ridiculously far-fetched or ludicrously simple. And he was laughing for those crazy sleepless nights where, all in futility, he shot guns and molded sculptures and lamented over empty coffee jars.

At long, long last the laughter whittled down to silence. And he was stood, shakily, with premature tears in his eyes. _'Good God man'_ he thought to himself. _'You've finally done it… you've lost the plot. Gone arse over tit.'_

Moriarty had been waiting patiently for the laughter to subside. Sherlock rose back up to his full height and continued a regular pace in breathing. A coldness fell across the two, a seriousness, and now any playfulness, whether facetious or not, was unseemly.

'The ring,' Sherlock said eventually. 'Not your own idea, I trust?'

Moriarty was still. He turned and began to pace yet again, his shoes hitting the ground with sharp clarity. 'You took down my web,' he said after a long pause. There was heft in his voice, genuine bereavement. 'You took down my web. Took you long enough, but you did it.' Sherlock frowned, struggling to decipher derision or legitimacy. Sarcasm? Was he bluffing? Double bluffing?

He sniffed, head hung, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. 'But spiders can rebuild webs.' He finished dabbing and straightened up. 'With a little help of course.' The grin was back. It was slimier, even crueler. It made Sherlock's skin crawl. 'I used to think that killing you would be the most satisfying thing in the world. It wasn't; it was messing with your family.'

He clenched his fists, trying hard to suppress his anger. Sentimentality was a weakness. A virus which he had slowly overtaken him. It was a part of him, so tender and untouched that aggravating it would be like prodding an open wound. No amount of aloof intelligence could mask this Achilles heel, and Moriarty knew this.

'I must say the whole daughter thing really is _cute. _And when the chance arose for a child prostitution ring, I thought I might put in my tuppence worth. Give it a kick start, that sort of thing.' He grinned at Sherlock's obvious unease. 'I hate to blow my own trumpet but they really would be lost without me.'

His heart began to beat fast. Hot. Angry. Suddenly it all made sense. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault that he forgot to pick Eve up from school. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't protect her. The feud he and Moriarty shared wasn't even his fault… It was the fault of the kidnapper. This sly criminal and the pedophiles who'd been stalking her since she was an infant. This wasn't the product of an accident; it was the outcome of a plan that had taken years to form, the workings of those who followed and plotted her movements like masterful cheetahs stalking their long awaited prey.

Not his fault.

_Their_ fault.

More hot blood began coursing through his veins. The knuckles of his hands were white, his palm numb. 'You were right,' he continued smoothly. 'I never liked getting my hands dirty. But I couldn't resist the chance to have my very own Sherlock Junior to play with.'

'Geoff…'

'Quite stupid really. Needed some help getting out of jail. I thought, why not? He could help me. But I got a much more entertaining show than that!' There was a meeting of eyes, a pure, decisive hold. 'You're little girl's going insane… and so are you. Just killing her wasn't enough. I had to toy with her. With you. Now I've turned you into a monster, Sherlock Holmes.' He grinned. 'Join the club.'

The nails burst through the surface of his skin. Sherlock could feel his face flushing red, mere seconds away from exploding. He clenched his hands tighter. _Oh to hell with this_ he thought to himself. _To hell with the snarky conversations and intelligent talk… he's brought you here to kill you. You may as well kill him first._

But a split second before he was about to move, Moriarty shook his head. 'Not so fast,' he said. Red dots fluttered into vison and eventually settled on Sherlock's chest. Snipers. Of course.

The voice was straight back in his head again. _What does that matter!? Let him blow you up! He's the reason your daughter can't close her eyes without you by her side; A real father would sooner drag the fucker's eyes out and risk death than let him stand there!_

He stood, conflicted between professionalism and parenthood, two polar opposites that sent his head into a confusing spin. Again, Moriarty shook his head. 'I spared a gunman. You won't put a step further, unless you want your husband's brains all over the kitchen floor.'

Sherlock's eyes snapped wider. He swallowed and was dutifully still, sweat creeping down his forehead. 'I'm usually nicer than this,' he sighed. 'I was nice with Michael. I gave him a choice to end it himself or let a gunman pick him off.'

The detective thought back the suicidal interview. 'That was you?'

'Of course it was me. I told the assisting officer to slip him a gun in return for her little brother back,' he exhaled. 'She preferred him in one piece… I was going to pick off Isaac too, although you did that for me.'

The room suddenly became a lot colder. A new smell hung in the air, a sickly sweet smell, and Sherlock found himself sweating. Moriarty walked back across the stage and behind the red curtain, out of sight.

The smell grew stronger. Against his will, Sherlock's chest began to contort and contract. He shook, retched, hunched over in confusion, his vision blurring. The room seemed... foggier. Glancing down, he noticed thick mist curl around his ankles. Coughing, he tried to unstick himself, but his feet were glued to the spot.

A smell, nauseating, overtook him. All of a sudden he was sweating, choking, his legs lost in the vape of dry ice. His bones went soft, hands slack. The room was spinning as his legs buckled beneath him, the smell, the sweet smell enticing him into a deep sleep. He crashed to the ground, head smacking the parquet flooring. Spluttering, he felt tears wet the sides of his face, his eyes smarting, the image of the ceiling drifting in and out of focus. All he could hear was his own shallow breath. He tried to move, tried to scream, but he was paralyzed. Trapped in this lucid hell.

Smoke rolled over his form. Then a loud noise, a drone filled his ears. Echoing a song:

'Itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout…'

The voice was tantalizingly soft. A tiny snippet of a rat's face. No… _his _face, Moriarty's smiling eyes in a long muzzled gas mask.

The face was gone. Sherlock groaned, sobbed pathetically, fear making him quake.

'Down came the rain and washed the spider out…'

He would die here, would die alone with no chance to apologize to his family. The face flicked back and was immediately gone.

A blinding light filled his head. For some reason, his head recited his earliest memory; Mycroft leading him by the hand across a brick wall. Those eyes… outwardly cold but inherently kind. His firm hold. That half-smile that said _"I know we must be enemies but I love you _really, _little brother_."

'Out came the sun and dried up all the rain…'

His heart ached as a sudden influx of childhood memories came flooding back. _"No I will _not_ play pirates, you little pestilence," "You must hold my hand as we cross the road… do you _want _to be killed?" "Sherlock you must tell me when that boy bothers you again; I have developed a tasteless laxative you can slip into his Capri Sun."_

The face was back again. A long, muddy green snout. He was getting closer, the song growing louder and louder. It became one mushy, singular sound.

'And itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.'

After much fighting, Sherlock admitted heavy aching eyes slid closed. The face of death was breathing down his front, ready to swallow the soul from inside him.

He'd accept. He wouldn't fight. His final battle was lost but he felt eerily calm.

His mind was plunged into darkness. It conjured up the voice of his brother.

_"__Oh don't be so _stupid_ Sherlock!"_

_"__Sherlock what have you done with my Bromine water?!"_

_"__Pirates _didn't _use spatulas as swords."_

_"__Sherlock, leave me be!"_

_"__Sherlock, get _off!"

_"__IF YOU HIT ME WITH THAT SPATULA ONCE MORE I WILL TACKLE YOU!"_

_"__Sherlock!"_

"Sher_lock!"_

_'__Sherlock!'_

Suddenly the voice was real. It pierced the silence. The room was still, the hum and intensity and torment all gone from his ears.

_'__Sherlock!'_ the voice called again, with unmistakable urgency. There was a sharp gasp as Mycroft saw his little brother splayed out on the floor.

Sherlock awoke to a throbbing head and the sound of his brother darting towards him. Immediately Mycroft was by his side, his face flooded with concern. 'Sherlock,' he repeated, only softer. Sherlock cracked both eyes open, his face sticky with thick sweat and tears. The room was clear, the fog gone, the indigo light of early morning casting a glow over the two brothers.

Immediately thoughts of the night came flooding back to him. Moriarty… the fog… the threat… _John!_

'John! J-Jh-' He tried to prop himself up onto his elbows, confusion still thundering through him. His arms shook under the weight and collapsed from beneath him. Without a word, Mycroft lifted Sherlock's feeble head onto his lap.

'You stupid man,' he said softly. 'Do you listen to a _word_ I say?'

Sherlock could feel his face, clammy and translucent with tears. 'John,' he said weakly.

'We took the snipers out; John and Eve are safe.'

A warm wave of relief flooded him and Sherlock felt his head fall back. A jagged cry escaped his lips and he shook with the intensity of solace; It was over now. It was all over.

'Interesting drug,' Mycroft said eventually. 'Works like chloroform but can be transferred to dry ice… it was the same thing they used to sedate the girls.'

Sherlock swallowed, heart still racing. He tried to speak but failed to form words. 'Moriarty?' Mycroft said, reading his mind. 'He ran away. Sniper on sniper; we took the gunmen out before they could take _you_ out.' The elder brother inhaled, as if about to say something else; _He's still on the prowl… this isn't over… he'll be after you again…_ but stopped himself. He instead looked down at Sherlock, coaxing his head higher up his arm the way a parent would a newborn child. There was a look of tenderness in his eyes, of genuine anxiety, and for that single second, all the competitive bitterness of their relationship was stripped away.

He sat still for a good thirty seconds, cradling his head, stroking his shoulder, his shamefully affectionate behavior muffled in the silvery darkness. Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness, snippets of Mycroft's touch, of his voice. Throughout the insensible affair he could piece little together, apart from one line, one line said with hefty embarrassment as his hair was stroked softly:

'Oh lord… when you wake up, I hope you don't remember this.'

* * *

**I won't lie, this has been one of the most difficult chapters to write and I've been putting it off forever, purely because I'm scared of what you'll think. But still, sometimes it's good to step out of your comfort zone (even if it goes tits up. Has it gone tits up? I DUNNO YOU TELL ME HOLY LORD I'M SCARED!)**


	29. Chapter 29

The sun was low. Pale. Early. Sherlock ascended the stairs idly, his movements quiet and short and sacred.

Light danced on the gloom and the detective found, for the first time in his life, that the dust bothered him. There was stillness, calmness and fragility in the air. Nostalgically foreboding. Sherlock found himself thinking back to everything that had happened in his lifetime, on these same stairs; the first time he met John properly; Mrs. Hudson's attack; leading his husband up the steps with a new wedding ring gleaming on his finger; pushing John against the wall and crushing their mouths together; carrying his baby daughter carefully, and carrying her again, six years later, on the night of Christmas Eve.

Suddenly he stopped, and found that he was at the top. A silence lingered in the air, as if the world was baiting its breath. He cupped the handle, slid it to one side and gently pushed the door open.

John was sat in his chair wearing yesterday's clothes. The minute Sherlock stepped inside he sprang up. He could not hide anything; anger, uncertainty and relief all swam in his eyes which were pink and lined from lack of sleep. He swallowed, slicking his messy hair back with his fingers. Sherlock met his gaze and gave a slight nod as if to say 'it's ok. You can be angry. You deserve to be angry.' But John seemed heavily disinterested with asserting his husband. Instead, his gaze drifted towards Sherlock's chair, where Eve's eyes were watching inertly.

She was peering over the back, so merely a bush of frizzy hair, a white forehead and her tired eyes were visible. Sherlock angled himself and his face became flooded with sadness. What could be said now? What could be said to this poor broken child who he'd tortured with his own apathy? He clenched his fists as she scooted backwards on her knees and stood. With her gaze fixed she walked towards him, the sleeve of her nightgown drooping. To his surprise, Sherlock felt inclined to move away, sure that she'd start attacking him as she had done before.

Instead, she stayed fixed on his eyes, tilting her head to the side the way a dog does when it hears something confusing. It was his red eyes, his shining cheeks; he'd been crying. And the child, so harrowed by her father's sadness, reached up and grabbed his middle. He was suddenly overtaken by a surge of hot instinct and quickly, almost forcefully, he snatched her up and embraced her.

It may have been the fatigue, or the relief, or the pressure of past months melting from her soul, but Eve found her eyes stinging. And all of a sudden she was sobbing, her forehead pushed against his shoulder, her arms clasped around his neck. And Sherlock was shaking. His eyes were clamped shut in the intensity of emotion, his hands gripping her scalp through her hair as if making sure she was real. The gap between them was sealed and it wasn't that she couldn't feel her sorrows anymore, it was as if they were never there… For that time, for that single moment she felt safe, and loved. Sherlock staggered and the music stand shook, he kissed her salty face again and again and felt himself speaking in one long, breathy tumble: 'it's not your fault… it's _not_ your fault…oh sweetheart it's _not your fault.'_ Warm surges of relief, of love, washed over them. He pushed his face into her shoulder and stroked her hair and rocked her. Such solace, such ease. He could now tell her, with every confidence, that it was all over. That she was safe. He could say it and it would _mean_ something.

Eventually, at long, long last, the two pulled apart. The glow of their affection still lingered. Eve took Sherlock's hand in hers and John's in her others' and walked them both into the bedroom.

Being back there reminded her of her earliest memories; being a toddler with a thicket of black hair, bundled up in those huge queen sized sheets one lazy Sunday and watching Lilo and Stitch on the old television.

Now the room was darker and smaller. Less open. More secret.

She did not let go of their hands, even as Eve sat upon her fathers' bed, burrowed beneath their arms, and told them of every living nightmare she had experienced in captivity.

She wept without sound and recounted every word the men had spoken to her, every accusation they had chided her with.

While she spoke of the pain in her stomach which later enflamed her heart and soul; the dreams she had dreamt of her parents, and woken from alone.

When she described the nostalgia that drained every joy from her spirit- the helplessness that nearly claimed her life.

Even as Sherlock blinked furiously, the angry tears stinging his eyes; as he drowned in silence as Eve gave way to the words, and the emotion behind them disabled her speech.

The three held hands through it all. Through the tears and the silence, the hate and the abounding love. And they remained clasped in a hold that would not falter for a single resting moment.

They slept through the long hot day in old clothes, aching and listless and still. And finally, the long harrowing winter ordeal was put to rest with them, but a cold bitter memory that would soon melt away.

A nightmare overtaken by dream.

Cruelty defeated by love.

Sweet relief from bitter truth.

* * *

**A quick chapter but as always, I would love reviews! (do you think we could hit 80 this time? Please?)**

**Shout out to Adj and Guest for your kind words xxx**


	30. Chapter 30

**Sorry I haven't updated in awhile but my motivation has been pretty low :(**

**I know you've heard it a million times before but _please_ review, even if it's just a sentence. I'm of course very thankful for all those who do review but dropping me a line honestly makes me _so_ happy and excited :3 Also, I've just started my final year of school and am getting loads of homework, so I'm finding it more and more difficult to find time to write.**

**Sorry, rant over.**

**This chapter's a little different. Enjoy!**

* * *

It was a hot spring, where the sun shone every day and everybody commented upon it. Old ladies on park benches, fanning themselves with well-thumbed copies of "Women's Own" would say 'Oh, isn't it hot?' Sherlock would passively ignore them, loosening his collar and wiping beads of perspiration from his brow. The heat was all anyone seemed to speak of, and he knew that when the weather changed, they'd still be talking of the same thing, only blowing into their hands and complaining of the cold.

The flowerbeds of the school playground dried up that spring and Charlotte came in each day, her weak Irish complexion bruised pink from the sun. She and Eve would glance out over the school field and see sheets, dried out in the heat, listless in the still air, and the ache of cars moving slowly in the hot sun, their windows wide as if that might change anything.

'It's not over you know,' John chided one afternoon, shifting out of the way as a tired Eve flopped onto the couch. 'The social worker's coming over in three days.'

'Three days should be plenty of time,' Sherlock muttered. His eyes were closed, his face shiny and pale with sweat. Eve was utterly exhausted, for in all her six years she'd never known heat like it. And she reacted like a rich tea biscuit; by crumbling.

John raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. The past couple of days had proved his utter incapacity to clean, and had demonstrated how excellent his husband and daughter were at edging responsibility. Of course, it was difficult to find motivation to clean a house in the aftermath of such harrowing events and the stuffy heat, but the seeming futility of the task didn't make it go away; it was a small step towards domestic normality and a settled home, that they all seemed unable to take.

There was a knock on the door and John stood to answer it. He pulled it open to see Mrs. Hudson, her face firm, brandished with a duster. 'I've decided that I've been a passive player in this for far too long,' she announced.

John blinked in confusion. 'Sorry?' She stepped into the living room and Sherlock found that Molly was adjacently stood behind her. He raised his eyebrows at her revealing attire; a pair of shorts and a low cut shirt exhibiting her sharp collar bone that glistened with sweat.

'Hi John!' She said brightly, hunching her shoulders and also stepping inside. Again, to John's bafflement, another figure was stood behind her: Mycroft. His eyes fluttered in shock.

'Mycroft? What… what are you all doing here?' the man looked mildly dazed and he said softly:

'I'm not entirely sure.'

'We're here to help you tidy up,' Mrs. Hudson affirmed, thrusting a can of polish into John's arms.

'You said this was a drugs bust!' Anderson called.

'Ander—how many of you _are_ there!?'

'Just me and Donovan now,' Lestrade emerged from the doorway with a sullen Anderson and a flustered Sally.

John's eyes were narrowed in disbelief, slightly convinced that it was the heat playing tricks on him. He turned towards Mrs. Hudson. 'How…how did you get ahold of them?'

'I made some calls dear. They were all happy to help.'

'Not all of us,' Anderson muttered.

'Yeah, cry me a river; now you're here you may aswell give us a hand,' Lestrade threw a roll of bin liners towards him. Sally was fanning herself with her hand, her great fuzz of hair catching the light. John considered her unspoken motives. Perhaps she was bribed. Perhaps she'd been tricked like Anderson. Or maybe it was guilt that drove her here.

Eve scrambled over to the group and flew towards Mycroft, clamping her arms around his waist. He instinctively flinched away but slowly relaxed, giving her a quick, rigid pat on the head. Sherlock was slow to follow but eventually peeled himself from the chair and lolloped over to the crowd.

'I've compiled a list,' Mrs. Hudson said. 'Sherlock, John and Eve, you clear away the papers. Scotland Yard, you're in charge of specimens, namely the fridge,' delight flickered across Anderson's eyes as an opportunity was realized for tampering. 'Mycroft, you and I will be in charge of a deep clean, dusting and whatnot.'

Mycroft tugged his mouth into a sarcastic grin and gave Eve's head one firm stroke. 'Oh joy.'

'Now, now, let us not forget why we're all here. Many hands make light work,' she grinned at the ragtag group. They all blinked back at her, varying looks of confusion and regret on their faces.

* * *

In the heat, everything seemed an effort; bodies were squashed together, aching and hot, and by six o'clock, the tired group could shake the sweat from their hair.

Sherlock was visibly tense throughout the affair, constantly craning his neck to see what precious items were being ransacked by Anderson and the team. The three were crouched on the floor, sifting through towers of paper, making three piles: Keep, Maybe, and Throw. The crown of Eve's curls was slick and straight with condensation, which had near reduced the papers into a mushy pile. The Keep pile was assembled of old family photographs and drawings, as well as some essential documents that the detective had left lying around (his marriage records, for example.) The Maybe pile was vital deductions and half scribbled chemistry notes, and the Throw was the tallest tower by far, consisting of year old cases, crumpled homeworks and mushy heat -infected papers that couldn't be salvaged.

At the very least, John and Eve only threw with his consent; behind him he could hear Anderson clattering around, chucking experiment after experiment into one huge bin-liner. The hand from the freezer and the slabs of flesh in the fridge were the first to go, soon followed by the eyes he'd kept in the microwave and the foot he'd crammed into Eve's old plastic lunchbox. With each clatter he flinched and narrowly refrained from yelling at them to stop, but summoned the willpower to look away; this _was _for Eve after all.

'So _that's_ where my power rangers went,' heard Mycroft call from the bedroom.

'What are you doing in there? That room's fine!' Mycroft glided out, his face indignant.

'I _knew_ you were lying,' he hissed.

'Does it really matter now?' John asked.

'Matter?' Mycroft did not break the gaze of his brother. 'It was the feud that defined our childhood. The battle of a generation.'

'Oh for the love of—how are you getting on in there?'

Mycroft snapped his rubber gloves from his hands and sighed. 'I honestly don't know how you stand her.'

'Working you hard?'

'She's _savage.' _

'Um, Sherlock, what's this?' Molly asked from behind, holding a piece of severed flesh between her fingers. Sherlock glanced up from cramming the Keep papers into a folder.

'You found Susan!' He said delightedly. 'In a bit of a sorry state though… She can go.' Molly lingered for a second, uncertainty and the hunger for questions swimming in her eyes.

'Ok,' she said instead, refraining from obvious questions such as the species and purpose of the thing she had in her hand. Without fuss she dropped the unspecified article into a bag.

_'Mycroft!'_ Mrs. Hudson called. _'Hurry up!'_

He rolled his eyes heavily. 'I'm coming!' he called back, and shot his brother a withering look as if to say _"oh, the things I do for you."_

* * *

By seven o'clock the place was beginning to look decent; for the first time in living memory Sherlock could see the tabletop and realized that the carpet was in fact a milky grey rather than a coffee brown. All human remains had been scrapped, the fridge had been scrubbed within an inch of its life and the cluttered papers sorted and filed. Eve's old plush cat resurfaced from the bedroom, as John had admitted to constantly having it near the bed during her kidnap. Seeing the two of them back together, Eve and her plushy cat, made something flutter in his chest. They were finally together. Reunited. At long, long last she was home.

An hour later, and the group were worn out. Mrs. Hudson served hotpot on the newly decluttered surface. There was a collective groan as the group realized she'd served a winter dish on one of the hottest days of the year.

It was an awkward dinner. So awkward, it was almost funny. Sherlock and Sally had found themselves next to each other, shooting livid scowls whenever their shoulders' touched; Eve was sat on her knees, babbling to Mycroft about her cat; Anderson and Molly were packed tightly together, eating in utter silence; and Mrs. Hudson was placed beside Lestrade, knocking his drink over whenever she leaned to dish out second helpings. The weather became drastically cold towards late evening and the skies merged to black, apple pie and custard was churned onto plates and Michael Buble was played to fill the empty silence. It was at that point Sherlock realized what this was; it was the Christmas Dinner they'd never had. Surrounded by (mainly) loved ones in an embarrassing deafly silence, wishing he were somewhere else. It made him grin fondly to endure this awful event so reminiscent of the holidays he had suffered before.

But before Mrs. Hudson could whip out some crackers or start a game of charades, Lestrade stood. 'We best be off,' he said. 'Thank you for the food and um…I hope it all goes well.' He shook John's hand and awkwardly ruffled Eve's hair before shambling out of the room with Molly, Sally and Anderson in his wake. By this point Mycroft had also realized the opportunity for escape. Stripped of his previous brotherly compassion, he chided Sherlock with a warning to be on his best behavior and detached Eve from his middle before, too, walking away.

'Swear by that young man,' Mrs. Hudson said as the door slammed closed. 'I didn't use a can of my best polish for nothing.' Sherlock sighed heavily.

'I promise. I'll try this time.' He flopped into his chair, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. But he could not rest. The clock on the newly polished mantle ticked, an omen, a warning. It was telling him something; that the wait would be agony, or that time would shoot past, all too quickly.

* * *

**I suppose we haven't had a chapter this sappy since the first few (deep sigh.)**

**PLEASE tell me what you thought! Reviews make me feel so special :3**


	31. Chapter 31

The day of judgement finally dawned.

It was a Saturday, and the Holmes family had deterred from their usual morning ritual of sleeping in late and evading responsibility. This particular morning they'd woken early, washed and dressed, and resumed a stoic battle-stance before the clock had reached nine.

Eve's hair had been tamed into plaits. She was wearing her best white dress with the blue sash tied into sloping bow. John and Sherlock had also scrubbed up nicely, shaving and combing hair and pressing clothes. Mrs. Hudson nipped over when the social worker was due to arrive with a tray of tea and biscuits and an apron tied around her waist. 'Thanks,' John said, shooting her a tight, anxious smile. Sherlock paced feverishly behind him. She paused unhelpfully, glancing back into the kitchen.

'It really is _lovely_ lino,' she said, nodding towards the paved wall.

John turned quickly, loosely, as if expecting a surprise. 'Oh, um, thank you,' he said, turning back.

'All it really needed was a good scrubbing to bring out the green,' she twittered on. 'Same goes for the bathroom, it'll shape up nicely if you use a bit of Cillit Bang every once in awhile, you know, just where the cracks get grubby.'

'Mm-hmm,' John's eyes suddenly twitched towards Sherlock, whose pacing had become notably louder and faster. He walked with a deep frown and an aura of restlessness, like a tormented animal wandering its cage.

'Of course_ I_ have slate in my kitchen which is much easier to manage than lino because you don't get that glaze, but back in the day _everyone's_ kitchen was made out of lino, it was the fashion see—'

_'__Thank_ you Mrs. Hudson!' Sherlock blustered suddenly. He took her firmly by the shoulders and steered her towards the door.

'You'll tell me if you need anything?'

'Yes, yes, thank you for the tea!' he pushed her into the corridor and slammed the door shut, spun on his heel and resumed the erratic pacing.

'Well that was quite rude,' John muttered.

'Mm,' Sherlock said distractedly, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. Eve emerged from her bedroom, her face red and one plait unravelled.

'Oh for Gods' _sake!'_ John said, exasperated, and knelt on one knee to retie the hair, which had grown springy and tangled in the heat. 'Is your room finished?' he said waywardly, looping the hair over and under. Eve nodded.

'I've lined all my teddies up. We're ready.'

'Good girl.'

'Daddy?'

'Yeah?'

'Is there… is there any chance that the lady might take me?'

John stopped plaiting and looked up. Her childish face was flooded with concern, brown furrowed and eyes large with apprehension; he'd not considered how scary an ordeal this might have been for her. 'None,' he said simply. 'None at all.'

'And if she does, don't worry; I've a loaded rifle under the fireplace and a forensics group on call.'

John turned to Sherlock with a strained, sour smile. 'Thanks Sherlock,' he said with slight bitterness.

The doorbell sounded downstairs and the three stopped in their tracks. John swallowed, a lump in his throat. 'Well, here goes,' he said. He reached for the door handle before turning back to face the two. 'Try to… act natural ok?' Sherlock nodded as if he understood, leaning against the kitchen counter like an awkwardly hinged action figure. Eve looked blank before slinging one hand on her hip and the other above her head and baring her teeth into a grin. 'No, just, just do what you'd _normally _do,' Sherlock switched arms and smiled widely as if he were in pain, Eve braced herself against the door and cocked her head. John looked upon them, exasperated, and the doorbell gave another impatient ring. He turned helplessly and rushed down the stairs.

Mrs. Brown stood on the doorstep fanning herself, wearing heavy tweed and a flat-cap. Her perfect hair had been forced out of shape by the heat and sweat was dragging the makeup from her face. It was strangely comforting to see her so disheveled. 'Sorry I'm late,' she said, panting. 'Traffic was crawling. How do you do?'

'Fine, and yourself? Do come in.' John stood back to let the woman through.

'Thank you,' she said, ducking to get inside and unbuttoning her tweed jacket. Her eyebrows shot up as she stepped into the hallway. 'Goodness… so much clearer!' she took out her brown leather notepad and scribbled something down. Mrs. Hudson waltzed between them brightly, holding a pot of summer flowers and shooting the woman a dazzling smile.

'Would you like to make your way upstairs?' John gestured upwards towards the flat. Head still bowed over the notepad, the woman ascended without looking at him.

'Good luck!' Mrs. Hudson mouthed, and scuttled back into her house.

When the door to the flat was opened John could see Sherlock nonchalantly reading the paper and Eve on the floor playing with her cat. The image was so sappy and picture-perfect that John had to fight back laughter, especially when the two beamed brightly at Mrs. Brown like they were posing for a Colgate ad.

'Hello there!' she said, leaning over slightly towards Eve. 'Is that your cat?' she pointed towards the toy.

She nodded.

'What's his name?'

'Galileo,' she said bashfully, twisting his plush paw.

'How lovely,' she rose again to her full height and gave Sherlock a curt nod. 'Good to see you again Mr. Holmes,' her small eyes ran up and down his body, clearly impressed with his choice of attire.

'And you,' he strained, his face struggling to keep the smile. Unsure of how long to hold the gaze, he watched without blinking as she scribbled again, an unyielding stare that would make anyone uneasy. John led her into the kitchen and Sherlock's face collapsed into its usual surly expression.

Brown continued to scribble, looking about her at the shiny surfaces and bright lino, before reaching a reproachful hand towards the fridge. She shot John a quick glance remembering last time, relaxing as she pulled it open. 'Ah,' she exclaimed blithely, and her thin lips stretched into a smile. 'Marvelous.'

Throughout the tour John would lead the way in an awkward side-step, ready to shift in front of a skew-whiff picture frame or a pot of wilting flowers. Brown seemed uncharacteristically perky throughout the affair, the thin red smile on her face for most of it; she'd even laughed delightedly at the sight of Eve's teddy bears all lined up a vaguely intimidating row. "Clean bed," she wrote, and John decided not to tell her that it was only clean because Eve hadn't slept in it for months.

At long last, the two found themselves back in the living room. Sherlock's attempts at being friendly were all gone, and he was holding Eve on his lap, his hands tight. 'Well Mr. Holmes,' Brown said, lowering herself into a chair that John had pulled out for her. 'I'm very impressed with the changes you have made,' Sherlock's hands clasped tighter and his breath caught in his throat, as if prepared to fight anyone who attempted to come near. 'You are both clearly very loving parents and well…' John held his breath, eyes wide, watching her intently. '…well it would seem cruel to remove a child from your care.' She ripped a page from her notebook and stood. 'Eve is hereby off the Child Protection list. Good day.'

'Thank God!' John cried, springing up. He grabbed her hand and shook it vigorously. 'Thank you, thank you so much!' Brown's eyes drifted nervously towards the door, longing to be free of John's rigorous grasp. She cleared her throat.

'Yes, yes and that will be all thank you,' she said, snatching her hand back and leaving promptly.

Sherlock stood and lifted a beaming Eve higher. 'Thank God,' he said, and then turned to meet John, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat. 'Thank_ God.'_

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**Sorry it took so long to upload this chapter but it's probably been the hardest one to write and this fic wasn't intended to carry on for this long. Jeez, in just over a month this fic is going to be a year old… I still can't quite believe it...**

**I will love you eternally if you grant me a single review!**

**Evangeline xxx**


	32. Chapter 32

And from then on, things only seemed to get better; within a week of Mrs. Brown leaving, Eve had begun sleeping in her own bed again, and John and Sherlock could rekindle a somewhat passionate relationship in her absence.

Charlotte and Eve walked the perimeter of the school each breaktime, sporting red checkered dresses and white ankle socks in the sudden heat. Eve felt happy to stray from the rusty climbing frame where she'd fought Darcy and the bike stack which reminded her of her kidnap to instead venture the field. Sometimes the two would make a birds nest on the ground, or eat undergrown, slightly rotten apples from the orchard, or play on the old splintered pirate ship, concocting wild games which would drag on for days and days. Her stodgy, almost adultish mind was suddenly crammed full of childish wonderments, stupid games, far-fetched ideas and things she knew could never be true. The orchard became a battlefield, the crumbled earth was crawling with treasure and fairies lingered amongst trodden bluebells.

There on those fields, Eve made some of the best memories of her life. Charlotte was suddenly a source of comfort, with her marshmallow body and soft bubblegum smell. One day, when they were out of breath from playing and scorched from the sun, they sat beneath a shaded oak tree, listening to the cool, tinny sounds of children playing and stretching their legs out in front of them. Charlotte rolled her socks into donuts by her ankles, leaned back and closed her eyes. Eve fidgeted for a second, troweling in the dirt with a twig. She wasn't sure what made her say it, but suddenly found herself speaking. 'I was raped, you know.' Her voice was solemn, melancholy. A strong wind caused the leaves above them to rustle fiercely, drowning out the sounds and shrieks. Charlotte opened her eyes and glanced at her friend, picking up on the sadness in her voice. She closed them again, reached out, and patted Eve's hand.

'That's bad,' she said, and her hand lingered there for a second. Eve breathed a long sigh, and her eyes drifted shut.

'It hurt,' she said, slightly more casual.

'Mm-hm.'

'It was scary.'

'Yeah.'

'It makes me feel really sad,' her voice broke on the last word, yet her face remained strong, unyielding. Charlotte looked at her helplessly.

'Sorry,' she mumbled. 'I…I don't know what raped is.'

Eve suddenly felt a surge of vitality, of emotion. She wished to explain it, to go through each detail, to mourn deeply her torment and share her pain, but stopped herself. 'It's okay,' she said instead. Why say anything? Why force Charlotte to acknowledge things any adult would struggle to stomach?

Charlotte hitched herself from the ground and stood, dusting mud from the back of her skirt. 'C'mon,' she said. 'I've got tippex in my bag; I'll paint your nails for you.'

* * *

Thus, the days got longer and hotter. Lunch-time was moved up to an hour as the kids struggled to focus in class, and Eve used to dread hearing Big Ben toll at one o'clock as a sign to go back inside. The smell of hot rubber and pollen and melted crayons occupied each break, with the taste of Charlotte's Hubba Bubba and Jaffa Cakes and Rainbow Drops (which she snuck into her lunchbox.)In science they apathetically grew cress and commented upon their teacher's pinkness, conversed about their holiday plans and grumbled over the lumpy custard they'd been served for dessert. They sat cross-legged on the varnished assembly floor, picking their scabs and watching as the year sixes performed rickety covers on the recorder and vaguely venereal gymnastics routine for the Leavers Talent Contest. Charlotte was sobbing by the end of it. 'What's the matter?' Eve asked in a low voice, as two stick-thin girls sang a warbling duet about friendship.

'I'm gonna miss them so much!' Charlotte said tearfully, wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve.

'Why, do you know one of them?'

'No!' She lapsed into another fit of tears, which wasn't helped when Fat Freddie stood and recited a poem about how much the school meant to him. He was like a shiny pink blancmange by the end, his voice distorted with emotion, body encased in sweat.

Eve didn't feel compelled to give way to tears by the end. In fact, she was more critical of the fact that nobody won, instead having the headmaster come up and say that they were _all _winners. 'Fat Freddie should've won,' she hissed, as the head strutted about the stage in a gaudy golden blazer. 'It's only fair. I mean, Ruby and Rochelle were both good but Tegan didn't even _try_, he tried well'ard, should be given a prize or something.' Charlotte was too busy blowing her nose to listen properly.

And alas, the final day came. The playground was spry with crying children, girls giving emotional goodbyes and boys letting everyone sign their shirts. 'I don't ever want to leave,' Charlotte sniffled. 'I don't want to leave you or Miss. Frank or the pirate ship or the orchard... I just _never_ wanna leave.'

'Ok,' Eve said. 'I'll tie you to the climbing frame with skipping ropes, then you'll _have_ to stay.'

Charlotte glanced at her and smiled a reassuring smile. 'This summer'll be fun,' she said happily, giving Eve a podgy little nudge. 'You can come over to my house.'

'Yeah, and I'm gonna be seven, and Daddy says we can have a party or—' she leapt up onto the climbing frame with an Umph of effort '—go somewhere fun…'

'Oh yeah, where?' Charlotte saw that Eve was about to fall and took her weight onto her shoulders.

'Thanks—I dunno, Pizza Hut, Laser Quest, L.A Bowl?'

'You know there's a fayre coming to town,' she said, walking Eve across the climbing frame as she was still sat on her shoulders. 'The same one we have at Walking Day- with the Big Wheel and the Merry-Go-Round an' that—' She leaned forwards and let Eve plop to the ground.

'Alright,' Eve said, out of breath. A wedge of pellucid stomach was on show, which she quickly covered with a yank of the skirt, and clapped her palms together to rid them of dirt. 'Okay, I'll ask my Dads.'

* * *

At midday, the lights of the Big wheel were switched on and the tinny music was turned up and the crowd swelled among the amusements, cutoff shorts and flip-flops and the smell of coconut-scented suncream and the waddle of big-bellied men with rummy sons and melting pink wives.

Sherlock could see that his husband was tense, rubbing his hands and craning whenever Eve and Charlotte were lost in the crowd- it had taken the detective himself a certain amount of willpower not to panic whenever she bobbed out of sight—but it would be cruel to rob her of her happiness. Today his girl was seven. And for a single day, they could pretend that the kidnapping, and the murder and Moriarty never existed. He knew deep down that no amount of bright lights and gaudy games would heal her, that she still awoke screaming in cold sweats and couldn't face the door, but if they could pose the tiniest hint of a distraction, he'd be happy.

A dark grey cloud hovered over the fayre at around one, and Eve shot an apprehensive look at the sky. She was wearing a shirred white summer dress and her Walking Day sandals, hardly the attire to cope with cold weather. Mycroft appeared behind him and he let out a sigh. 'Hello, brother dear,' he said, defeatedly, without turning; he smelt of London, of crumbling Limestone and Earl Grey Tea and tangy metallic earth. It struck him then, how displaced his brother was there; a suited man on a muddy field packed with a messy assortment of humans. 'Have you come to wish her a happy birthday?' he continued, 'or should we pack our bags right now.'

Mycroft sighed, long and hard, like a deflating balloon. 'If you want to ensure her safety, yes,' he said weakly. 'Although I'm sure we have the situation under control,' he pulled his pocketwatch out of his waistcoat. 'Moriarty will be here…hmm… four o'clock at the earliest. That should give you ten minutes or so, if you want to push your luck,' his inhaled through his teeth. 'Though for the sake of the other girl you should probably leave right now.' Sherlock's heart was pumping fast, fear and shame coursing through him. How foolish he was to not foresee this, to assume that the threat would put itself to sleep. And dragging Charlotte into the mess was unforgivable, more than he could bear. For a second he was paralyzed, stricken, until his daughter turned and waved from across the fayre. It was just then Sherlock realized that Eve had grown up; her faces had crept out of baby-hood and lengthened into a more oblong shape, like his. She seemed taller, her features more mature, nose longer, eyes a tad less large, and cheekbones just beginning to come through. It made Sherlock feel quite weak and warm in the chest to see this.

He stitched a smile onto his face and waved back. 'No,' he said to his brother. 'Let her stay. Let her enjoy it just a little longer.' He could see Mycroft's critical glare boring into the back of his head _"if you endanger my niece again I swear to God—" _ but he didn't care. She would enjoy herself today, even if it killed him. This could well be their last day out in the sun—from now on Eve's summer will be governed by snipers and security—but today, at this fayre, with this friend, she was free. Sherlock was joined by John and the three men stood at the top of the hill and watched her idly, proudly, like a trio of wise stone statues. John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's without a word, and rested his head on his shoulder.

Bubbles caught the technicolor light, blinking blurrily; red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple. Charlotte and Eve's feet scuffed the sandy mud as they ran up various metal slopes. The sun blossomed on Eve's hair, a ring of white on the black. They ate candy floss and ice-cream till their hands were sticky with runny sugar, each stall drawing their childish fancy. More colourful beads of light flashed across their wide eyes as they ran again, the epitome of childhood, and shouted, with playground voices.

THE END


	33. Lucy Faithfull Foundation

**Hey guys! Sorry for anyone who was expecting a continuation of this story, but I thought that as it is a year to the day that I published my final chapter, I should do something I've wanted to for quite a while. **

**So anyone who has read this story will probably know that there are some pretty gruesome themes of child rape and child sexual abuse within it. A relatively heavy subject that, in retrospect, I am disappointed with how clumsily I handled in earlier scenes. As I got into later scenes however, I decided to research the effects that events like this had on children and their families, and needless to say, what I found angered and upset me.**

**Not just the effects themselves, but the amount of children who have been abused in such fashion and how many feel as though they cannot tell anyone about it; many are abused by family members or people they trust, who cow them into silence by threatening to harm loved ones, or saying that family members will be angry with the child if they knew what was happening between them. These children grow up feeling trapped and helpless, all the while their attackers are treated with integrity and respect.**

**This fact has been frustrating me ever since I learnt about it, until I discovered a children's charity called the "Lucy Faithfull foundation." This is a foundation that helps prevent such things from happening to children in the first place. It is a UK based charity that do things from teaching internet safety to helping offenders manage their behavior and preventing further offences. **

**I'm not sure if the same is true for those outside the UK, but texting STOP44 1 to 70070, you can donate one pound to the charity. (Or STOP44 5 to give 5 pounds, STOP44 10 to give 10 pounds etc.)**

**I know some of you will have been expecting another chapter, or might be thinking that this is a stupid thing to post on the end of a Sherlock fanfiction, but I thought this would be the most relevant platform I could use to bring awareness to a very serious and disturbing topic, so I make no apologies for this. ****(as much as I cringe at most of the chapters, this fic is still the most dedicated piece of fiction I have ever written and I would like to utilize it for something meaningful.)**

**If you are interested in making a donation or just checking the website out, here is the link: ** . 

**I would be so, so grateful if you could spare some money for this wonderful charity, and as always, thank you so much for taking the time to read this! **

**Have a safe and happy Bonfire Night!**

**Evangeline May xxx**


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